(,1 


£X 


SUMMER 


A    NOVEL 


BY 

EDITH    WHARTON 

AUTHOR  OF 
"THE  REEF,"  "THE  HOUSE  OF  MIRTH,"  ETC. 


NEW    YORK 

D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 
1917 


«0 


v 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY  THE  MCCLOTLE  PUBLICATIONS,  INC. 


SUMMER 


366669 


SUMMER 


A    GIRL  came  out  of  lawyer  Royall's  house, 
at  the  end  of  the  one  street  of  North  Dor 
mer,  and  stood  on  the  doorstep. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  a  June  afternoon.  The 
springlike  transparent  sky  shed  a  rain  of  silver  sun 
shine  on  the  roofs  of  the  village,  and  on  the  pastures 
and  larchwoods  surrounding  it.  A  little  wind 
moved  among  the  round  white  clouds  on  the  shoul 
ders  of  the  hills,  driving  their  shadows  across  the 
fields  and  down  the  grassy  road  that  takes  the  name 
of  street  when  it  passes  through  North  Dormer. 
The  place  lies  high  and  in  the  open,  and  lacks  the 
lavish  shade  of  the  more  protected  New  England 
villages.  The  clump  of  weeping-willows  about  the 
duck  pond,  and  the  Norway  spruces  in  front  of  the 
Hatchard  gate,  cast  almost  the  only  roadside 
shadow  between  lawyer  Royall's  house  and  the 
point  where,  at  the  other  end  of  the  village,  the  road 


rises  above  the  ctiurch  'and  skirts  the  black  hemlock 
wall  enclosing  the  cemetery. 

The  little  June  wind,  frisking  down  the  street, 
shook  the  doleful  fringes  of  the  Hatchard  spruces, 
caught  the  straw  hat  of  a  young  man  just  passing 
under  them,  and  spun  it  clean  across  the  road  into 
the  duck -pond. 

As  he  ran  to  fish  it  out  the  girl  on  lawyer 
Royall's  doorstep  noticed  that  he  was  a  stranger, 
that  he  wore  city  clothes,  and  that  he  was  laughing 
with  all  his  teeth,  as  the  young  and  careless  laugh 
at  such  mishaps. 

Her  heart  contracted  a  little,  and  the  shrinking 
that  sometimes  came  over  her  when  she  saw  people 
with  holiday  faces  made  her  draw  back  into  the 
house  and  pretend  to  look  for  the  key  that  she  knew 
she  had  already  put  into  her  pocket.  A  narrow 
greenish  mirror  with  a  gilt  eagle  over  it  hung  on 
the  passage  wall,  and  she  looked  critically  at  her 
reflection,  wished  for  the  thousandth  time  that  she 
had  blue  eyes  like  Annabel  Balch,  the  girl  who 
sometimes  came  from  Springfield  to  spend  a  weel 
with  old  Miss  Hatchard,  straightened  the  sunburnt 
hat  over  her  small  swarthy  face,  and  turned  out 
again  into  the  sunshine. 

[8] 


SUMMER 

"How  I  hate  everything!"  she  murmured. 

The  young  man  had  passed  through  the  Hatchard 
gate,  and  she  had  the  street  to  herself.  North 
Dormer  is  at  all  times  an  empty  place,  and  at  three 
o'clock  on  a  June  afternoon  its  few  able-bodied  men 
are  off  in  the  fields  or  woods,  and  the  women  in 
doors,  engaged  in  languid  household  drudgery. 

The  girl  walked  along,  swinging  her  key  on  a  fin 
ger,  and  looking  about  her  with  the  heightened  at 
tention  produced  by  the  presence  of  a  stranger  in  a 
familiar  place.  What,  she  wondered,  did  North 
Dormer  look  like  to  people  from  other  parts  of  the 
world?  She  herself  had  lived  there  since  the  age 
of  five,  and  had  long  supposed  it  to  be  a  place  of 
some  importance.  But  about  a  year  before,  Mr. 
Miles,  the  new  Episcopal  clergyman  at  Hepburn,  who 
drove  over  every  other  Sunday — when  the  roads 
were  not  ploughed  up  by  hauling — to  hold  a  service 
in  the  North  Dormer  church,  had  proposed,  in  a 
fit  of  missionary  zeal,  to  take  the  young  people  down 
to  Nettleton  to  hear  an  illustrated  lecture  on  the 
Holy  Land ;  and  the  dozen  girls  and  boys  who  rep 
resented  the  future  of  North  Dormer  had  been  piled 
into  a  farm-waggon,  driven  over  the  hills  to  Hep 
burn,  put  into  a  way-train  and  carried  to  Nettleton. 

[9] 


SUMMER 

In  the  course  of  that  incredible  day  Charity  Roy  all 
had,  for  the  first  and  only  time,  experienced  railway- 
travel,  looked  into  shops  with  plate-glass  fronts, 
tasted  cocoanut  pie,  sat  in  a  theatre,  and  listened  to 
a  gentleman  saying  unintelligible  things  before  pic 
tures  that  she  would  have  enjoyed  looking  at  if  his 
explanations  had  not  prevented  her  from  under 
standing  them.  This  initiation  had  shown  her  that 
North  Dormer  was  a  small  place,  and  developed  in 
her  a  thirst  for  information  that  her  position  as  cus 
todian  of  the  village  library  had  previously  failed 
to  excite.  For  a  month  or  two  she  dipped  fever 
ishly  and  disconnectedly  into  the  dusty  volumes  of 
the  Hatchard  Memorial  Library;  then  the  impres 
sion  of  Nettleton  began  to  fade,  and  she  found  it 
easier  to  take  North  Dormer  as  the  norm  of  the  uni 
verse  than  to  go  on  reading. 

The  sight  of  the  stranger  once  more  revived 
memories  of  Nettleton,  and  North  Dormer  shrank 
to  its  real  size.  As  she  looked  up  and  down  it,  from 
lawyer  Royall's  faded  red  house  at  one  end  to  the 
white  church  at  the  other,  she  pitilessly  took  its 
measure.  {There  it  lay,  a  weather-beaten  sunburnt 
village  of  the  hills,  abandoned  of  men,  left  apart  by 
railway,  trolley,  telegraph,  and  all  the  forces  that 

[10] 


SUMMER 

link  life  to  life  in  modern  communities.  It  had  no 
shops,  no  theatres,  no  lectures,  no  "business  block" ; 
only  a  church  that  was  opened  every  other  Sunday 
if  the  state  of  the  roads  permitted,  and  a  library  for 
which  no  new  books  had  been  bought  for  twenty 
years,  and  where  the  old  ones  mouldered  undis 
turbed  on  the  damp  shelves//  Yet  Charity  Royall 
had  always  been  told  that  she  ought  to  consider  it 
a  privilege  that  her  lot  had  been  cast  in  North  Dor 
mer.  She  knew  that,  compared  to  the  place  she  had 
come  from,  North  Dormer  represented  all  the  bless-  i 
ings  of  the  most  refined  civilization.  Everyone  in 
the  village  had  told  her  so  ever  since  she  had  been 
brought  there  as  a  child.  Even  old  Miss  Hatchard 
had  said  to  her,  on  a  terrible  occasion  in  her  life : 
"My  child,  you  must  never  cease  to  remember  that 
it  was  Mr.  Royall  who  brought  you  down  from  the 
Mountain." 

]  She  had  been  "brought  down  from  the  Moun 
tain";  from  the  scarred  cliff  that  lifted  its  sullen 
wall  above  the  lesser  slopes  of  Eagle  Range,  mak 
ing  a  perpetual  background  of  gloom  to  the  lonely 
valley.  The  Mountain  was  a  good  fifteen  miles- 
away,  but  it  rose  so  abruptly  from  the  lower  hills 
that  it  seemed  almost  to  cast  its  shadow  over  North  v 


SUMMER 

Dormer.  And  it  was  like  a  great  magnet  drawing 
the  clouds  and  scattering  them  in  storm  across  the 
valley.  If  ever,  in  the  purest  summer  sky,  there 
trailed  a  thread  of  vapour  over  North  Dormer,  it 
drifted  to  the  Mountain  as  a  ship  drifts  to  a  whirl 
pool,  and  was  caught  among  the  rocks,  torn  up  and 
multiplied,  to  sweep  back  over  the  village  in  rain 
and  darkness.7 

Charity  was  not  very  clear  about  the  Mountain; 
but  she  knew  it  was  a  bad  place,  and  a  shame  to 
have  come  from,  and  that,  whatever  befell  her  in 
North  Dormer,  she  ought,  as  Miss  Hatchard  had 
once  reminded  her,  to  remember  that  she  had  been 
brought  down  from  there,  and  hold  her  tongue  and 
be  thankful.  She  looked  up  at  the  Mountain,  think 
ing  of  these  things,  and  tried  as  usual  to  be  thank 
ful.  But  the  sight  of  the  young  man  turning  in  at 
Miss  Hatchard's  gate  had  brought  back  the  vision 
of  the  glittering  streets  of  Nettleton,  and  she  felt 
ashamed  of  her  old  sun-hat,  and  sick  of  North  Dor 
mer,  and  jealously  aware  of  Annabel  Balch  of 
Springfield,  opening  her  blue  eyes  somewhere  far 
off  on  glories  greater  than  the  glories  of  Nettleton. 

"How  I  hate  everything!"  she  said  again. 

Half  way  down  the  street  she  stopped  at  a  weak- 

[12] 


SUMMER 

hinged  gate.  Passing  through  it,  she  walked  down 
a  brick  path  to  a  queer  little  brick  temple  with  white 
wooden  columns  supporting  a  pediment  on  which 
was  inscribed  in  tarnished  gold  letters :  "The  Hon- 
orius  Hatchard  Memorial  Library,  1832." 

Honorius  Hatchard  had  been  old  Miss  Hatch 
ard' s  great-uncle;  though  she  would  undoubtedly 
have  reversed  the  phrase,  and  put  forward,  as  her 
only  claim  to  distinction,  the  fact  that  she  was  his 
great-niece.  For  Honorius  Hatchard,  in  the  early 
years  of  the  nineteenth  century,  had  enjoyed  a  mod 
est  celebrity.  As  the  marble  tablet  in  the  interior 
of  the  library  informed  its  infrequent  visitors,  he 
had  possessed  marked  literary  gifts,  written  a  series 
of  papers  called  "The  Recluse  of  Eagle  Range," 
enjoyed  the  acquaintance  of  Washington  Irving 
and  Fitz-Greene  Halleck,  and  been  cut  off  in  his 
flower  by  a  fever  contracted  in  Italy.  Such  had 
been  the  sole  link  between  North  Dormer  and  lit 
erature,  a  link  piously  commemorated  by  the  erec 
tion  of  the  monument  where  Charity  Royall,  every 
Tuesday  and  Thursday  afternoon,  sat  at  her  desk 
under  a  freckled  steel  engraving  of  the  deceased 
author,  and  wondered  if  he  felt  any  deader  in  his 
grave  than  she  did  in  his  library. 

[13] 


SUMMER 

Entering  her  prison-house  with  a  listless  step  she 
took  off  her  hat,  hung  it  on  a  plaster  bust  of  Mi 
nerva,  opened  the  shutters,  leaned  out  to  see  if 
there  were  any  eggs  in  the  swallow's  nest  above  one 
of  the  windows,  and  finally,  seating  herself  behind 
the  desk,  drew  out  a  roll  of  cotton  lace  and  a  steel 
crochet  hook.  She  was  not  an  expert  workwoman, 
and  it  had  taken  her  many  weeks  to  make  the  half- 
yard  of  narrow  lace  which  she  kept  wound  about 
the  buckram  back  of  a  disintegrated  copy  of  "The 
Lamplighter."  But  there  was  no  other  way  of  get 
ting  any  lace  to  trim  her  summer  blouse,  and  since 
Ally  Hawes,  the  poorest  girl  in  the  village,  had 
shown  herself  in  church  with  enviable  transparen 
cies  about  the  shoulders,  Charity's  hook  had  trav 
elled  faster.  She  unrolled  the  lace,  dug  the  hook 
into  a  loop,  and  bent  to  the  task  with  furrowed 
brows. 

Suddenly  the  door  opened,  and  before  she  had 
raised  her  eyes  she  knew  that  the  young  man  she 
had  seen  going  in  at  the  Hatchard  gate  had  en 
tered  the  library. 

Without  taking  any  notice  of  her  he  began  to 
move  slowly  about  the  long  vault-like  rocm,  his 
hands  behind  his  back,  his  short-sighted  eyes  oeer- 

[14] 


SUMMER 

ing  up  and  down  the  rows  of  rusty  bindings.  At 
length  he  reached  the  desk  and  stood  before  her. 

"Have  you  a  card-catalogue?"  he  asked  in  a 
pleasant  abrupt  voice ;  and  the  oddness  of  the  ques 
tion  caused  her  to  drop  her  work. 

"A  what?" 

"Why,  you  know "  He  broke  off,  and  she  be 
came  conscious  that  he  was  looking  at  her  for  the 
first  time,  having  apparently,  on  his  entrance,  in 
cluded  her  in  his  general  short-sighted  survey  as 
part  of  the  furniture  of  the  library. 

The  fact  that,  in  discovering  her,  he  lost  the 
thread  of  his  remark,  did  not  escape  her  attention, 
and  she  looked  down  and  smiled.  He  smiled  also. 

"No,  I  don't  suppose  you  do  know,"  he  corrected 
himself.  "In  fact,  it  would  be  almost  a  pity " 

She  thought  she  detected  a  slight  condescension 
in  his  tone,  and  asked  sharply:  "Why?" 

"Because  it's  so  much  pleasanter,  in  a  small  li 
brary  like  this,  to  poke  about  by  one's  self — with 
the  help  of  the  librarian." 

He  added  the  last  phrase  so  respectfully  that  she 
was  mollified,  and  rejoined  with  a  sigh:  "I'm 
afraid  I  can't  help  you  much." 

"Why?"  he  questioned  in  his  turn;  and  she  re- 

[15] 


SUMMER 

plied  that  there  weren't  many  books  anyhow,  and 
that  she'd  hardly  read  any  of  them.  "The  worms 
are  getting  at  them,"  she  added  gloomily. 

"Are  they?  That's  a  pity,  for  I  see  there  are 
some  good  ones."  He  seemed  to  have  lost  interest 
in  their  conversation,  and  strolled  away  again,  ap 
parently  forgetting  her.  His  indifference  nettled 
her,  and  she  picked  up  her  work,  resolved  not  to 
offer  him  the  least  assistance.  Apparently  he  did 
not  need  it,  for  he  spent  a  long  time  with  his  back 
to  her,  lifting  down,  one  after  another,  the  tall  cob 
webby  volumes  from  a  distant  shelf. 

"Oh,  I  say!"  he  exclaimed;  and  looking  up  she 
saw  that  he  had  drawn  out  his  handkerchief  and 
was  carefully  wiping  the  edges  of  the  book  in  his 
hand.  The  action  struck  her  as  an  unwarranted 
criticism  on  her  care  of  the  books,  and  she  said  ir 
ritably  :  "It's  not  my  fault  if  they're  dirty." 

He  turned  around  and  looked  at  her  with  reviv 
ing  interest.  "Ah — then  you're  not  the  librarian?" 

"Of  course  I  am;  but  I  can't  dust  all  these  books. 
Besides,  nobody  ever  looks  at  them,  now  Miss 
Hatchard's  too  lame  to  come  round." 

"No,  I  suppose  not."  He  laid  down  the  book  he 
had  been  wiping,  and  stood  considering  her  in  si- 

[16] 


SUMMER 

lence.  She  wondered  if  Miss  Hatchard  had  sent 
him  round  to  pry  into  the  way  the  library  was 
looked  after,  and  the  suspicion  increased  her  resent 
ment.  "I  saw  you  going  into  her  house  just  now, 
didn't  I?"  she  asked,  with  the  New  England  avoid 
ance  of  the  proper  name.  She  was  determined  to 
find  out  why  he  was  poking  about  among  her  books. 

"Miss  Hatchard's  house?  Yes — she's  my  cousin 
and  I'm  staying  there,"  the  young  man  answered; 
adding,  as  if  to  disarm  a  visible  distrust:  "My 
name  is  Harney — Lucius  Harney.  She  may  have 
spoken  of  me." 

"No,  she  hasn't,"  said  Charity,  wishing  she  could 
have  said :  "Yes,  she  has." 

"Oh,  well "  said  Miss  Hatchard's  cousin  with 

a  laugh;  and  after  another  pause,  during  which  it 
occurred  to  Charity  that  her  answer  had  not  been 
encouraging,  he  remarked :  "You  don't  seem 
strong  on  architecture." 

Her  bewilderment  was  complete:  the  more  she 
wished  to  appear  to  understand  him  the  more  un 
intelligible  his  remarks  became.  He  reminded  her 
of  the  gentleman  who  had  "explained"  the  pictures 
at  Nettleton,  and  the  weight  of  her  ignorance  set 
tled  down  on  her  again  like  a  pall. 


SUMMER 

"I  mean,  I  can't  see  that  you  have  any  books 
on  the  old  houses  about  here.  I  suppose,  for  that 
matter,  this  part  of  the  country  hasn't  been  much 
explored.  They  all  go  on  doing  Plymouth  and  Salem. 
So  stupid.  My  cousin's  house,  now,  is  remarkable. 
This  place  must  have  had  a  past — it  must  have  been 
more  of  a  place  once."  He  stopped  short,  with  the 
blush  of  a  shy  man  who  overhears  himself,  and  fears 
he  has  been  voluble.  "I'm  an  architect,  you  see,  and 
I'm  hunting  up  old  houses  in  these  parts." 

She  stared.  "Old  houses?  Everything's  old  in 
North  Dormer,  isn't  it?  The  folks  are,  anyhow." 

He  laughed,  and  wandered  away  again. 

"Haven't  you  any  kind  of  a  history  of  the  place  ? 
I  think  there  was  one  written  about  1840:  a  book 
or  pamphlet  about  its  first  settlement,"  he  presently 
said  from  the  farther  end  of  the  room. 

She  pressed  her  crochet  hook  against  her  lip 
and  pondered.  There  was  such  a  work,  she  knew : 
"North  Dormer  and  the  Early  Townships  of  Eagle 
County."  She  had  a  special  grudge  against  it  be 
cause  it  was  a  limp  weakly  book  that  was  always 
either  falling  off  the  shelf  or  slipping  back  and  dis 
appearing  if  one  squeezed  it  in  between  sustaining 
volumes.  She  remembered,  the  last  time  she  had 

[18] 


SUMMER 

picked  it  up,  wondering  how  anyone  could  have 
taken  the  trouble  to  write  a  book  about  North  Dor 
mer  and  its  neighbours :  Dormer,  Hamblin,  Creston 
and  Creston  River.  She  knew  them  all,  mere  lost 
clusters  of  houses  in  the  folds  of  the  desolate  ridges : 
Dormer,  where  North  Dormer  went  for  its  ap 
ples  ;  Creston  River,  where  there  used  to  be  a  paper- 
mill,  and  its  grey  walls  stood  decaying  by  the 
stream;  and  Hamblin,  where  the  first  snow  always 
fell.  Such  were  their  titles  to  fame. 

She  got  up  and  began  to  move  about  vaguely  be 
fore  the  shelves.  But  she  had  no  idea  where  she 
had  last  put  the  book,  and  something  told  her  that 
it  was  going  to  play  her  its  usual  trick  and  remain 
invisible.  It  was  not  one  of  her  lucky  days. 

"I  guess  it's  somewhere/'  she  said,  to  prove  her 
zeal;  but  she  spoke  without  conviction,  and  felt 
that  her  words  conveyed  none. 

"Oh,  well "  he  said  again.  She  knew  he  was 

going,  and  wished  more  than  ever  to  find  the  book. 

"It  will  be  for  next  time,"  he  added ;  and  picking 
up  the  volume  he  had  laid  on  the  desk  he  handed 
it  to  her.  "By  the  way,  a  little  air  and  sun  would 
do  this  good;  it's  rather  valuable." 

He  gave  her  a  nod  and  smile,  and  passed  out. 

[19] 


II 


THE  hours  of  the  Hatchard  Memorial  libra 
rian  were  from  three  to  five;  and  Charity 
RoyalFs  sense  of  duty  usually  kept  her  at  her  desk 
until  nearly  half-past  four. 

But  she  had  never  perceived  that  any  practical 
advantage  thereby  accrued  either  to  North  Dormer 
or  to  herself;  and  she  had  no  scruple  in  decreeing, 
when  it  suited  her,  that  -the  library  should  close  an 
hour  earlier.  A  few  minutes  after  Mr.  Harney's 
departure  she  formed  this  decision,  put  away  her 
lace,  fastened  the  shutters,  and  turned  the  key  in 
the  door  of  the  temple  of  knowledge. 

The  street  upon  which  she  emerged  was  still 
empty;  and  after  glancing  up  and  down  it  she  be 
gan  to  walk  toward  her  house.  But  instead  of  en 
tering  she  passed  on,  turned  into  a  field-path  and 
mounted  to  a  pasture  on  the  hillside.  She  let  down 
the  bars  of  the  gate,  followed  a  trail  along  the 
crumbling  wall  of  the  pasture,  and  walked  on  till 
she  reached  a  knoll  where  a  clump  of  larches  shook 

[20] 


SUMMER 

out  their  fresh  tassels  to  the  wind.  There  she  lay 
down  on  the  slope,  tossed  off  her  hat  and  hid  her 
face  in  the  grass. 

She  was  blind  and  insensible  to  many  things,  and 
dimly  knew  it;  but  to  all  that  was  light  and  air, 
perfume  and  colour,  every  drop  of  blood  in  her 
responded.  She  loved  the  roughness  of  the  dry 
mountain  grass  under  her  palms,  the  smell  of  the 
thyme  into  which  she  crushed  her  face,  the  finger 
ing  of  the  wind  in  her  hair  and  through  her  cot 
ton  blouse,  and  the  creak  of  the  larches  as  they 
swayed  to  it. 

She  often  climbed  up  the  hill  and  lay  there  alone 
for  the  mere  pleasure  of  feeling  the  wind  and  of 
rubbing  her  cheeks  in  the  grass.  Generally  at  such 
times  she  did  not  think  of  anything,  but  lay  im 
mersed  in  jin  jnarticulate  jwell-being.  Today  the 
sense  of  well-being  was  intensified  by  her  joy  at 
escaping  from  the  library.  She  liked  well  enough 
to  have  a  friend  drop  in  and  talk  to  her  when  she 
was  on  duty,  but  she  hated  to  be  bothered  about 
books.  How  could  she  remember  where  they  were, 
when  they  were  so  seldom  asked  for?  Orma  Fry 
occasionally  took  out  a  novel,  and  her  brother  Ben 
was  fond  of  what  he  called  "jography,"  and  of 

[21] 


SUMMER 

books  relating  to  trade  and  bookkeeping;  but  no 
one  else  asked  for  anything  except,  at  intervals, 
"Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,"  or  "Opening  of  a  Chestnut 
Burr,"  or  Longfellow.  She  had  these  under  her 
hand,  and  could  have  found  them  in  the  dark;  but 
unexpected  demands  came  so  rarely  that  they  exas 
perated  her  like  an  injustice.  .  .  . 

She  had  liked  the  young  man's  looks,  and  his 
short-sighted  eyes,  and  his  odd  way  of  speaking, 
that  was  abrupt  yet  soft,  just  as  his  hands  were  sun 
burnt  and  sinewy,  yet  with  smooth  nails  like  a 
woman's.  His  hair  was  sunburnt-looking  too,  or 
rather  the  colour  of  bracken  after  frost;  his  eyes 
grey,  with  the  appealing  look  of  the  shortsighted, 
his  smile  shy  yet  confident,  as  if  he  knew  lots  of 
things  she  had  never  dreamed  of,  and  yet  wouldn't 
for  the  world  have  had  her  feel  his  superiority.  But 
she  did  feel  it,  and  liked  the  feeling;  for  it  was  new 
to  her.  Poor  and  ignorant  as  she  was,  and  knew 
herself  to  be — humblest  of  the  humble  even  in 
North  Dormer,  where  to  come  from  the  Mountain 
was  the  worst  disgrace — yet  in  her  narrow  world 
she  had  always  ruled.  It  was  partly,  of  course, 
owing  to  the  fact  that  lawyer  Roy  all  was  "the 
biggest  man  in  North  Dormer";  so  much  too  big 

[22] 


SUMMER 

for  it,  in  fact,  that  outsiders,  who  didn't  know,  al 
ways  wondered  how  it  held  him.  In  spite  of  every 
thing — and  in  spite  even  of  Miss  Hatchard — law 
yer  Royall  ruled  in  North  Dormer;  and  Charity 
ruled  in  lawyer  Royall's  house.  She  had  never 
put  it  to  herself  in  those  terms;  but  she  knew  her 
power,  knew  what  it  was  made  of,  and  hated  it. 
Confusedly,  the  young  man  in  the  library  had  made 
her  feel  for  the  first  time  what  might  be  the  sweet-  \/ 
ness  of  dependence. 

She  sat  up,  brushed  the  bits  of  grass  from  her 
hair,  and  looked  down  on  the  house  where  she  held 
sway.  It  stood  just  below  her,  cheerless  and  un- 
tended,  its  faded  red  front  divided  from  the  road 
by  a  "yard"  with  a  path  bordered  by  gooseberry 
bushes,  a  stone  well  overgrown  with  traveller's  joy, 
and  a  sickly  Crimson  Rambler  tied  to  a  fan-shaped 
support,  which  Mr.  Royall  had  once  brought  up 
from  Hepburn  to  please  her.  Behind  the  house  a 
bit  of  uneven  ground  with  clothes-lines  strung 
across  it  stretched  up  to  a  dry  wall,  and  beyond  the 
wall  a  patch  of  corn  and  a  few  rows  of  potatoes 
strayed  vaguely  into  the  adjoining  wilderness  of 
rock  and  fern. 

Charity  could  not  recall  her  first  sight  of  the 
[23] 


SUMMER 

house.  She  had  been  told  that  she  was  ill  of  a  fever 
when  she  was  brought  down  %-om  the  Mountain; 
and  she  could  only  remember  waking  one  day  in 
a  cot  at  the  foot  of  Mrs.  Royall's  bed,  and  open 
ing  her  eyes  on  the  cold  neatness  of  the  room  that 
was  afterward  to  be  hers. 

Mrs.  Royall  died  seven  or  eight  years  later ;  and 
by  that  time  Charity  had  taken  the  measure  of  most 
things  about  her.  She  knew  that  Mrs.  Royall  was 
sad  and  timid  and  weak;  she  knew  that  lawyer 
Royall  was  harsh  and  violent,  and  still  weaker.  She 
knew  that  she  had  been  christened  Charity  (in  the 
white  church  at  the  other  end  of  the  village)  to 
commemorate  Mr.  Royall's  disinterestedness  in 
"bringing  her  down,"  and  to  keep  alive  in  her  a  be 
coming  sense  of  her  dependence ;  she  knew  that  Mr. 
Royall  was  her  guardian,  but  that  he  had  not  legally 
adopted  her,  though  everybody  spoke  of  her  as 
Charity  Royall';  and  she  knew  why  he  had  come 
back  to  live  at  North  Dormer,  instead  of  practising 
at  Nettleton,  where  he  had  begun  his  legal  career. 

After  Mrs.  Royall's  death  there  was  some  talk 
of  sending  her  to  a  boarding-school.  Miss  Hatch- 
ard  suggested  it,  and  had  a  long  conference  with 
Mr.  Royall,  who,  in  pursuance  of  her  plan,  departed 

[24] 


SUMMER 

one  day  for  Starkfield  to  visit  the  institution  she 
recommended.  He  came  back  the  next  night  with 
a  black  face ;  worse,  Charity  observed,  than  she  had 
ever  seen  him ;  and  by  that  time  she  had  had  some 
experience. 

When  she  asked  him  how  soon  she  was  to  start 
he  answered  shortly,  "You  ain't  going,"  and  shut 
himself  up  in  the  room  he  called  his  office;  and 
the  next  day  the  lady  who  kept  the  school  at  Stark- 
field  wrote  that  "under  the  circumstances"  she  was 
afraid  she  could  not  make  room  just  then  for  an 
other  pupil. 

Charity  was  disappointed;  but  she  understood. 
It  wasn't  the  temptations  of  Starkfield  that  had 
been  Mr.  Royall's  undoing;  it  was  the  thought  of 
losing  her.  He  was  a  dreadfully  "lonesome"  man.; 
she  had  made  that  out  because  she  was  so  "lone 
some"  herself.  He  and  she,  face  to  face  in  that 
sad  house,  had  sounded  the  depths  of  isolation ;  and 
though  she  felt  no  particular  affection  for  him, 
and  not  the  slightest  gratitude,  she  pitied  him  be 
cause,  she  was  conscious  that  he  was  superior  to 
the  people  about  him,  and  that  she  was  the  only 
being  between  him  and  solitude.  Therefore,  when 
Miss  Hatchard  sent  for  her  a  day  or  two  later,  to 

[25] 


SUMMER 

talk  of  a  school  at  Nettlcton,  and  to  say  that  this 
time  a  friend  of  hers  would  "make  the  necessary 
arrangements,"  Charity  cut  her  short  with  the  an 
nouncement  that  she  had  decided  not  to  leave  North 
Dormer. 

Miss  Hatchard  reasoned  with  her  kindly,  but  to 
no  purpose;  she  simply  repeated:  "I  guess  Mr. 
Royall's  too  lonesome." 

Miss  Hatchard  blinked  perplexedly  behind  her 
eye-glasses.  Her  long  frail  face  was  full  of  puzzled 
wrinkles,  and  she  leant  forward,  resting  her  hands 
on  the  arms  of  her  mahogany  armchair,  with  the 
evident  desire  to  say  something  that  ought  to  be 
said. 

"The  feeling  does  you  credit,  my  dear." 

She  looked  about  the  pale  walls  of  her  sitting- 
room,  seeking  counsel  of  ancestral  ^daguerreotypes 
and  didactic  samplers;  but  they  seemed  to  make  ut 
terance  more  difficult. 

"The  fact  is,  it's  not  only — not  only  because  of 
the  advantages.  There  are  other  reasons.  You're 
too  young  to  understand " 

"Oh,  no,  I  ain't,"  said  Charity  harshly  ;  and  Miss 
Hatchard  blushed  to  the  roots  of  her  blonde  cap. 
But  she  must  have  felt  a  vague  relief  at  having 

[26! 


SUMMER 

her  explanation  cut  short,  for  she  concluded,  again 
invoking  the  daguerreotypes:  "Of  course  I  shall 
always  do  what  I  can  for  you ;  and  in  case  ...  in 
case  .  .  .  you  know  you  can  always  come  to 
me.  .  .  ." 

Lawyer  Royall  was  waiting  for  Charity  in  the 
porch  when  she  returned  from  this  visit.  He  had 
shaved,  and  brushed  his  black  coat,  and  looked  a 
magnificent  monument  of  a  man;  at  such  moments 
she  really  admired  him. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "is  it  settled?" 

"Yes,  it's  settled.     I  ain't  going." 

"Not  to  the  Nettleton  school?" 

"Not  anywhere." 

He  cleared  his  throat  and  asked  sternly:  "Why?" 

"I'd  rather  not,"  she  said,  swinging  past  him  on 
her  way  to  her  room.  It  was  the  following  week 
that  he  brought  her  up  the  Crimson  Rambler  and 
its  fan  from  Hepburn.  He  had  never  given  her 
anything  before. 

The  next  outstanding  incident  of  her  life  had 
happened  two  years  later,  when  she  was  seventeen. 
Lawyer  Royall,  who  hated  to  go  to  Nettleton,  had 
been  called  there  in  connection  with  a  case.  He 
still  exercised  his  profession,  though  litigation  Ian- 

[27] 


SUMMER 

guished  in  North  Dormer  and  its  outlying  hamlets ; 
and  for  once  he  had  had  an  opportunity  that  he 
could  not  afford  to  refuse.  He  spent  three  days  in 
Nettleton,  won  his  case,  and  came  back  in  high 
good-humour.  It  was  a  rare  mood  with  him,  and 
manifested  itself  on  this  occasion  by  his  talking 
impressively  at  the  supper-table  of  the  "rousing 
welcome"  his  old  friends  had  given  him.  He  wound 
up  confidentially :  "I  was  a  damn  fool  ever  to  leave 
Nettleton.  It  was  Mrs.  Royall  that  made  me  do  it." 

Charity  immediately  perceived  that  something  bit 
ter  had  happened  to  him,  and  that  he  was  trying  to 
talk  down  the  recollection.  She  went  up  to  bed 
early,  leaving  him  seated  in  moody  thought,  his 
elbows  propped  on  the  worn  oilcloth  of  the  supper 
table.  On  the  way  up  she  had  extracted  from  his 
overcoat  pocket  the  key  of  the  cupboard  where  the 
bottle  of  whiskey  was  kept. 

She  was  awakened  by  a  rattling  at  her  door  and 
jumped  out  of  bed.  She  heard  Mr.  Royall's  voice, 
low  and  peremptory,  and  opened  the  door,  fearing 
an  accident.  No  other  thought  had  occurred  to 
her;  but  when  she  saw  him  in  the  doorway,  a  ray 
from  the  autumn  moon  falling  on  his  discomposed 
face,  she  understood. 

[28] 


SUMMER 

For  a  moment  they  looked  at  each  other  in  si 
lence;  then,  as  he  put  his  foot  across  the  thresh 
old,  she  stretched  out  her  arm  and  stopped  him. 

"You  go  right  back  from  here,"  she  said,  in  a 
shrill  voice  that  startled  her;  "you  ain't  going  to 
have  that  key  tonight." 

"Charity,  let  me  in.  I  don't  want  the  key.  I'm 
a  lonesome  man,"  he  began,  in  the  deep  voice  that 
sometimes  moved  her. 

Her  heart  gave  a  startled  plunge,  but  she  con 
tinued  to  hold  him  back  contemptuously.  "Well, 
I  guess  you  made  a  mistake,  then.  This  ain't  your 
wife's  room  any  longer." 

She  was  not  frightened,  she  simply  felt  a  deep 
disgust;  and  perhaps  he  divined  it  or  read  it  in  her 
face,  for  after  staring  at  her  a  moment  he  drew 
back  and  turned  slowly  away  from  the  door.  With 
her  ear  to  her  keyhole  she  heard  him  feel  his  way 
down  the  dark  stairs,  and  toward  the  kitchen;  and 
she  listened  for  the  crash  of  the  cupboard  panel, 
but  instead  she  heard  him,  after  an  interval,  unlock 
the  door  of  the  house,  and  his  heavy  steps  came 
to  her  through  the  silence  as  he  walked  down  the 
path.  She  crept  to  the  window  and  saw  his  bent 
figure  striding  up  the  road  in  the  moonlight.  Then 

[29] 


SUMMER 

a  belated  sense  of  fear  came  to  her  with  the  con 
sciousness  of  victory,  and  she  slipped  into  bed,  cold 
to  the  bone. 

A  day  or  two  later  poor  Eudora  Skeff,  who  for 
twenty  years  had  been  the  custodian  of  the  Hatch- 
ard  library,  died  suddenly  of  pneumonia;  and  the 
day  after  the  funeral  Charity  went  to  see  Miss 
Hatchard,  and  asked  to  be  appointed  librarian.  The 
request  seemed  to  surprise  Miss  Hatchard :  she  evi 
dently  questioned  the  new  candidate's  qualifications. 

"Why,  I  don't  know,  my  dear.  Aren't  you 
rather  too  young?"  she  hesitated. 

"I  want  to  earn  some  money,"  Charity  merely  an 
swered. 

"Doesn't  Mr.  Royall  give  you  all  you  require? 
No  one  is  rich  in  North  Dormer." 

"I  want  to  earn  money  enough  to  get  away." 

"To  get  away?"  Miss  Hatchard's  puzzled  wrin 
kles  deepened,  and  there  was  a  distressful  pause. 
"You  want  to  leave  Mr.  Royall?" 

"Yes :  or  I  want  another  woman  in  the  house  with 
me,"  said  Charity  resolutely. 

Miss  Hatchard  clasped  her  nervous  hands  about 
the  arms  of  her  chair.  Her  eyes  invoked  the  faded 

[30] 


SUMMER 

countenances  on  the  wall,  and  after  a  faint  cough 
of  indecision  she  brought  out:  'The  .  .  .  the 
housework's  too  hard  for  you,  I  suppose?" 

Charity's  heart  grew  cold.  She  understood  that 
Miss  Hatchard  had  no  help  to  give  her  and  that  she 
would  have  to  fight  her  way  out  of  her  difficulty 
alone.  A  deeper  sense  of  isolation  overcame  her;  \s 

:  **»nmftl:t.«9,'X>*<°>*f"r""" "'••-•'-->  • 

she  felt  incalculably  old.  "She's  got  to  be  talked 
to  like  a  baby/'  she  thought,  with  a  feeling  of  com 
passion  for  Miss  Hatchard's  long  immaturity.  "Yes, 
that's  it,"  she  said  aloud.  "The  housework's  too 
hard  for  me:  I've  been  coughing  a  good  deal  this 
fall." 

She  noted  the  immediate  effect  of  this  suggestion. 
Miss  Hatchard  paled  at  the  memory  of  poor  Eudo- 
ra's  taking-off,  and  promised  to  do  what  she  could. 
But  of  course  there  were  people  she  must  consult: 
the  clergyman,  the  selectmen  of  North  Dormer,  and 
a  distant  Hatchard  relative  at  Springfield.  "If 
you'd  only  gone  to  school!"  she  sighed.  She  fol 
lowed  Chanty  to  the  door,  and  there,  in  the  se 
curity  of  the  threshold,  said  with  a  glance  of  eva 
sive  appeal:  "I  know  Mr.  Royall  is  ...  trying 
at  times;  but  his  wife  bore  with  him;  and  you  must 
always  remember,  Charity,  that  it  was  Mr.  Royall 


SUMMER 

who    brought    you    down    from    the    Mountain." 

Charity  went  home  and  opened  the  door  of  Mr. 
Royall's  "office."  He  was  sitting  there  by  the  stove 
reading  Daniel  Webster's  speeches.  They  had  met 
at  meals  during  the  five  days  that  had  elapsed  since 
he  had  come  to  her  door,  and  she  had  walked  at  his 
side  at  Eudora's  funeral;  but  they  had  not  spoken 
a  word  to  each  other. 

He  glanced  up  in  surprise  as  she  entered,  and  she 
noticed  that  he  was  unshaved,  and  that  he  looked 
unusually  old;  but  as  she  had  always  thought  of 
v  him  as  an  old  man  the  change  in  his  appearance  did 
not  move  her.  She  told  him  she  had  been  to  see 
Miss  Hatchard,  and  with  what  object.  She  saw  that 
he  was  astonished;  but  he  made  no  comment. 

"I  told  her  the  housework  was  too  hard  for  me, 
and  I  wanted  to  earn  the  money  to  pay  for  a  hired 
girl.  But  I  ain't  going  to  pay  for  her:  you've  got 
to.  I  want  to  have  some  money  of  my  own." 

Mr.  Royall's  bushy  black  eyebrows  were  drawn 
together  in  a  frown,  and  he  sat  drumming  with  ink- 
stained  nails  on  the  edge  of  his  desk. 

"What  do  you  want  to  earn  money  for?"  he 
asked. 

"So's  to  get  away  when  I  want  to." 

[32] 


SUMMER 

"Why  do  you  want  to  get  away?" 

Her  contempt  flashed  out  "Do  you  suppose 
anybody'd  stay  at  North  Dormer  if  they  could  help 
it?  You  wouldn't,  folks  say!" 

V/ith  lowered  head  he  asked :  "Where'd  you  go 
to?" 

"Anywhere  where  I  can  earn  my  living.  I'll  try 
here  first,  and  if  I  can't  do  it  here  I'll  go  somewhere 
else.  I'll  go  up  the  Mountain  if  I  have  to."  She 
paused  on  this  threat,  and  saw  that  it  had  taken 
effect.  "I  want  you  should  get  Miss  Hatchard  and 
the  selectmen  to  take  me  at  the  library :  and  I  want 
a  woman  here  in  the  house  with  me,"  she  repeated. 

Mr.  Royall  had  grown  exceedingly  pale.  When 
she  ended  he  stood  up  ponderously,  leaning  against 
the  desk;  and  for  a  second  or  two  they  looked  at 
each  other. 

"See  here,"  he  said  at  length  as  though  utter 
ance  were  difficult,  "there's  something  I've  been 
wanting  to  say  to  you ;  I'd  ought  to  have  said  it  be 
fore.  I  want  you  to  marry  me." 

The  girl  still  stared  at  him  without  moving.     "I 

want  you  to  marry  me,"  he  repeated,  clearing  his 

throat.     "The  minister'll  be  up  here  next  Sunday 

and  we  can  fix  it  up  then.     Or  I'll  drive  you  down 

3  [33] 


SUMMER 

to  Hepburn  to  the  Justice,  and  get  it  done  there. 
I'll  do  whatever  you  say."  His  eyes  fell  under  the 
merciless  stare  she  continued  to  fix  on  him,  and  he 
shifted  his  weight  uneasily  from  one  foot  to  the 
other.  As  he  stood  there  before  her,  unwieldy, 
shabby,  disordered,  the  purple  veins  distorting  the 
hands  he  pressed  against  the  desk,  and  his  long  ora 
tor's  jaw  trembling  with  the  effort  of  his  avowal, 
he  seemed  like  a  hideous  parody  of  the  fatherly  old 
man  she  had  always  known. 

"Marry  you?  Me?"  she  burst  out  with  a  scorn 
ful  laugh.  "Was  that  what  you  came  to  ask  me 
the  other  night?  What's  come  over  you,  I  wonder? 
How  long  is  it  since  you've  looked  at  yourself  in 
the  glass?"  She  straightened  herself,  insolently 
conscious  of  her  youth  and  strength.  "I  suppose 
you  think  it  would  be  cheaper  to  marry  me  than 
to  keep  a  hired  girl.  Everybody  knows  you're  the 
closest  man  in  Eagle  County;  but  I  guess  you're 
not  going  to  get  your  mending  done  for  you  that 
way  twice." 

Mr.  Royall  did  not  move  while  she  spoke.  His 
face  was  ash-coloured  and  his  black  eyebrows  quiv 
ered  as  though  the  blaze  of  her  scorn  had  blinded 
him.  When  she  ceased  he  held  up  his  hand. 

[341 


SUMMER 

"That'll  do— that'll  about  do,"  he  said.  He  turned 
to  the  door  and  took  his  hat  from  the  hat-peg.  On 
the  threshold  he  paused.  "People  ain't  been  fair 
to  me — from  the  first  they  ain't  been  fair  to  me," 
he  said.  Then  he  went  out. 

A  few  days  later  North  Dormer  learned  with 
surprise  that  Charity  had  been  appointed  librarian 
of  the  Hatchard  Memorial  at  a  salary  of  eight  dol 
lars  a  month,  and  that  old  Verena  Marsh,  from  the 
Creston  Almshouse,  was  coming  to  live  at  lawyer 
Royall's  and  do  the  cooking. 


Ill 


IT  was  not  in  the  room  known  at  the  red  house 
as  Mr.  Royall's  "office"  that  he  received  his 
infrequent  clients.  Professional  dignity  and  mas 
culine  independence  made  it  necessary  that  he 
should  have  a  real  office,  under  a  different  roof; 
and  his  standing  as  the  only  lawyer  of  North  Dor 
mer  required  that  the  roof  should  be  the  same  as 
that  which  sheltered  the  Town  Hall  and  the  post- 
office. 

It  was  his  habit  to  walk  to  this  office  twice  a  day, 
morning  and  afternoon.  It  was  on  the  ground  floor 
of  the  building,  with  a  separate  entrance,  and  a 
weathered  name-plate  on  the  door.  Before  going 
in  he  stepped  in  to  the  post-office  for  his  mail — 
usually  an  empty  ceremony — said  a  word  or  two  to 
the  town-clerk,  who  sat  across  the  passage  in  idle 
state,  and  then  went  over  to  the  store  on  the  oppo 
site  corner,  where  Carrick  Fry,  the  storekeeper,  al 
ways  kept  a  chair  for  him,  and  where  he  was  §ure 
to  find  one  or  two  selectmen  leaning  on  the  long 

[36] 


SUMMER 

counter,  in  an  atmosphere  of  rope,  leather,  tar  and 
coffee-beans.  Mr.  Royall,  though  monosyllabic  at 
home,  was  not  averse,  in  certain  moods,  to  impart 
ing  his  views  to  his  fellow-townsmen ;  perhaps,  also, 
he  was  unwilling  that  his  rare  clients  should  sur 
prise  him  sitting,  clerkless  and  unoccupied,  in  his 
dusty  office.  At  any  rate,  his  hours  there  were  not 
much  longer  or  more  regular  than  Charity's  at  the 
library;  the  rest  of  the  time  he  spent  either  at  the 
store  or  in  driving  about  the  country  on  business 
connected  with  the  insurance  companies  that  he  rep 
resented,  or  in  sitting  at  home  reading  Bancroft's 
History  of  the  United  States  and  the  speeches  of 
Daniel  Webster. 

Since  the  day  when  Charity  had  told  him  that 
she  wished  to  succeed  to  Eudora  Skeff's  post  their 
relations  had  undefmably  but  definitely  changed. 
Lawyer  Royall  had  kept  his  word.  He  had  ob 
tained  the  place  for  her  at  the  cost  of  considerable 
manceuvering,  as  she  guessed  from  the  number  of 
rival  candidates,  and  from  the  acerbity  with  which 
two  of  them,  Orma  Fry  and  the  eldest  Targatt 
girl,  treated  her  for  nearly  a  year  afterward.  And 
he  had  engaged  Verena  Marsh  to  come  up  from 
Creston  and  do  the  cooking.  Verena  was  a  poor 

[37] 


SUMMER 

old  widow,  doddering  and  shiftless:  Charity  sus 
pected  that  she  came  for  her  keep.  Mr.  Royall  was 
too  close  a  man  to  give  a  dollar  a  day  to  a  smart 
girl  when  he  could  get  a  deaf  pauper  for  nothing. 
But  at  any  rate,  Verena  was  there,  in  the  attic 
just  over  Charity,  and  the  fact  that  she  was  deaf 
did  not  greatly  trouble  the  young  girl. 

Charity  knew  that  what  had  happened  on  that 
hateful  night  would  not  happen  again.  She  un 
derstood  that,  profoundly  as  she  had  despised  Mr. 
Royall  ever  since,  he  despised  himself  still  more 
profoundly.  If  she  had  asked  for  a  woman  in 
.  the  house  it  was  far  less  for  her  own  defense  than 
for  his  humiliation.  She  needed  no  one  to  defend 
her:, his  humbled  pride  was  her  surest  protection. 
He  had  never  spoken  a  word  of  excuse  or  extenua 
tion;  the  incident  was  as  if  it  had  never  been.  Yet 
its  consequences  were  latent  in  every  word  that 
he  and  she  exchanged,  in  every  glance  they  in 
stinctively  turned  from  each  other.  Nothing  now 
would  ever  shake  her  rule  in  the  red  house. 

On  the  night  of  her  meeting  with  Miss  Hatch- 
ard's  cousin  Charity  lay  in  bed,  her  bare  arms 
clasped  under  her  rough  head,  and  continued  to 
think  of  him.  She  supposed  that  he  meant  to  spend 

[38] 


SUMMER 

some  time  in  North  Dormer.  He  had  said  he  was 
looking  up  the  old  houses  in  the  neighbourhood; 
and  though  she  was  not  very  clear  as  to  his  pur 
pose,  or  as  to  why  anyone  should  look  for  old 
houses,  when  they  lay  in  wait  for  one  on  every 
roadside,  she  understood  that  he  needed  the  help 
of  .books,  and  resolved  to  hunt  up  the  next  day  the 
volume  she  had  failed  to  find,  and  any  others  that 
seemed  related  to  the  subject. 

Never  had  her  ignorance  of  life  and  literature 
so  weighed  on  her  as  in  reliving  the  short  scene  of 
her  discomfiture.  "It's  no  use  trying  to  be  anything 
in  this  place,"  she  muttered  to  her  pillow ;  and  she 
shrivelled  at  the  vision  of  vague  metropolises,  shin 
ing  super-Nettletons,  where  girls  in  better  clothes 
than  Belle  Balch's  talked  fluently  of  architecture  to 
young  men  with  hands  like  Lucius  Harney's.  Then 
she  remembered  his  sudden  pause  when  he  had 
come  close  to  the  desk  and  had  his  first  look  at 
her.  The  sight  had  made  him  forget  what  he  was 
going  to  say;  she  recalled  the  change  in  his  face, 
and  jumping  up  she  ran  over  the  bare  boards  to 
her  washstand,  found  the  matches,  lit  a  candle,  and 
lifted  it  to  the  square  of  looking-glass  on  the  white 
washed  wall.  Her  small  face,  usually  so  darkly 

[39] 


SUMMER 

pale,  glowed  like  a  rose  in  the  faint  orb  of  light, 
and  under  her  rumpled  hair  her  eyes  seemed  deeper 
and  larger  than  by  day.  Perhaps  after  all  it  was 
a  mistake  to  wish  they  were  blue.  A  clumsy  band 
and  button  fastened  her  unbleached  night-gown 
about  the  throat  She  undid  it,  freed  her  thin 
shoulders,  and  saw  herself  a  bride  in  low-necked 
satin,  walking  down  an  aisle  with  Lucius  Harney. 
He  would  kiss  her  as  they  left  the  church.  .  .  . 
She  put  down  the  candle  and  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands  as  if  to  imprison  the  kiss.  At  that  mo 
ment  she  heard  Mr.  RoyalTs  step  as  he  came  up 
the  stairs  to  bed,  and  a  fierce  revulsion  of  feeling 
swept  over  her.  Until  then  she  had  merely  de 
spised  him;  now  deep  hatred  of  him  filled  her  heart. 
He  became  to  her  a  horrible  old  man.  .  .  . 

The  next  day,  when  Mr.  Royall  came  back  to 
dinner,  they  faced  each  other  in  silence  as  usual. 
Verena's  presence  at  the  table  was  an  excuse  for 
their  not  talking,  though  her  deafness  would  have 
permitted  the  freest  interchange  of  confidences.  But 
when  the  meal  was  over,  and  Mr.  Royall  rose  from 
the  table,  he  looked  back  at  Charity,  who  had 
stayed  to  help  the  old  woman  clear  away  the  dishes. 

[40] 


SUMMER 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you  a  minute/'  he  said ;  and 
she  followed  him  across  the  passage,  wondering. 

He  seated  himself  in  his  black  horse-hair  arm 
chair,  and  she  leaned  against  the  window,  indif 
ferently.  She  was  impatient  to  be  gone  to  the 
library,  to  hunt  for  the  book  on  North  Dormer. 

"See  here,"  he  said,  "why  ain't  you  at  the  library 
the  days  you're  supposed  to  be  there?" 

The  question,  breaking  in  on  her  mood  of  bliss 
ful  abstraction,  deprived  her  of  speech,  and  she 
stared  at  him  for  a  moment  without  answering. 

"Who  says  I  ain't?" 

"There's  been  some  complaints  made,  it  appears. 
Miss  Hat  chard  sent  for  me  this  morning " 

Charity's  smouldering  resentment  broke  into  a 
blaze.  "I  know!  Orma  Fry,  and  that  toad  of  a 
Targatt  girl — and  Ben  Fry,  like  as  not.  He's  go 
ing  round  with  her.  The  low-down  sneaks — I  al 
ways  knew  they'd  try  to  have  me  out!  As  if  any 
body  ever  came  to  the  library,  anyhow!" 

"Somebody  did  yesterday,  and  you  weren't 
there." 

"Yesterday?"  she  laughed  at  her  happy  recollec 
tion.  "At  what  time  wasn't  I  there  yesterday,  I'd 
like  to  know?" 


SUMMER 

" Round  about  four  o'clock." 

Charity  was  silent.  She  had  been  so  steeped  in 
the  dreamy  remembrance  of  young  Harney's  visit 
that  she  had  forgotten  having  deserted  her  post  as 
soon  as  he  had  left  the  library. 

"Who  came  at  four  o'clock  ?" 

"Miss  Hatchard  did." 

"Miss  Hatchard  ?  Why,  she  ain't  ever  been  near 
the  place  since  she's  been  lame.  She  couldn't  get 
up  the  steps  if  she  tried." 

"She  can  be  helped  up,  I  guess.  She  was  yes 
terday,  anyhow,  by  the  young  fellow  that's  stay 
ing  with  her.  He  found  you  there,  I  understand, 
earlier  in  the  afternoon;  and  he  went  back  and 
told  Miss  Hatchard  the  books  were  in  bad  shape 
and  needed  attending  to.  She  got  excited,  and  had 
herself  wheeled  straight  round;  and  when  she  got 
there  the  place  was  locked.  So  she  sent  for  me, 
and  told  me  about  that,  and  about  the  other  com 
plaints.  She  claims  you've  neglected  things,  and 
that  she's  going  to  get  a  trained  librarian." 

Charity  had  not  moved  while  he  spoke.  She 
stood  with  her  head  thrown  back  against  the  win 
dow-frame,  her  arms  hanging  against  her  sides,  and 
her  hands  so  tightly  clenched  that  she  felt,  with- 

[42] 


SUMMER 

out  knowing  what  hurt  her,  the  sharp  edge  of  her 
nails  against  her  palms. 

Of  all  Mr.  Roy  all  had  said  she  had  retained  only 
the  phrase:  "He  told  Miss  Hatchard  the  books 
were  in  bad  shape/'  What  did  she  care  for  the 
other  charges  against  her?  Malice  or  truth,  she 
despised  them  as  she  despised  her  detractors.  But 
that  the  stranger  to  whom  she  had  felt  herself 
so  mysteriously  drawn  should  have  betrayed  her! 
That  at  the  very  moment  when  she  had  fled  up  the 
hillside  to  think  of  him  more  deliciously  he  should 
have  been  hastening  home  to  denounce  her  short 
comings!  She  remembered  how,  in  the  darkness 
of  her  room,  she  had  covered  her  face  to  press  his 
imagined  kiss  closer;  and  her  heart  raged  against 
him  for  the  liberty  he  had  not  taken. 

"Well,  I'll  go,"  she  said  suddenly.  "I'll  go  right 
off." 

"Go  where?"  She  heard  the  startled  note  in  Mr. 
Royall's  voice. 

"Why,  out  of  their  old  library :  straight  out,  and 
never  set  foot  in  it  again.  They  needn't  think  I'm 
going  to  wait  round  and  let  them  say  they've  dis 
charged  me!" 

"Charity — Charity  Royall,  you  listen "  he  be- 

[43] 


SUMMER 

gan,  getting  heavily  out  of  his  chair;  but  she  waved 
him  aside,  and  walked  out  of  the  room. 

Upstairs  she  took  the  library  key  from  the  place 
where  she  always  hid  it  under  her  pincushion — who 
said  she  wasn't  careful? — put  on  her  hat,  and  swept 
down  again  and  out  into  the  street.  If  Mr.  Roy  all 
heard  her  go  he  made  no  motion  to  detain  her: 
his  sudden  rages  probably  made  him  understand 
the  uselessness  of  reasoning  with  hers. 

She  reached  the  brick  temple,  unlocked  the  door 
and  entered  into  the  glacial  twilight.  "I'm  glad 
I'll  never  have  to  sit  in  this  old  vault  again  when 
other  folks  are  out  in  the  sun!"  she  said  aloud 
as  the  familiar  chill  took  her.  She  looked  with 
abhorrence  at  the  long  dingy  rows  of  books,  the 
sheep-nosed  Minerva  on  her  black  pedestal,  and 
the  mild-faced  young  man  in  a  high  stock  whose 
jffigX  pined  above  her  desk.  She  meant  to  take 
out  of  the  drawer  her  roll  of  lace  and  the  library 
register,  and  go  straight  to  Miss  Hatchard  to  an 
nounce  her  resignation.  But  suddenly  a  great  deso 
lation  overcame  her,  and  she  sat  down  and  laid 
her  face  against  the  desk.  Her  heart  was  ravaged 
by  life's  crudest  discovery:  the  first  creature  who 
had  come  toward  her  out  of  the  wilderness  had 

[44] 


SUMMER 

brought  her  anguish  instead  of  joy.  She  did  not 
cry;  tears  came  hard  to  her,  and  the  storms  of  her 
heart  spent  themselves  inwardly.  But  as  she  sat 
there  in  her  dumb  woe  she  felt  her  life  to  be  too 
desolate,  too  ugly  and  intolerable. 

"What  have  I  ever  done  to  it,  that  it  should 
hurt  me  so?"  she  groaned,  and  pressed  her  fists 
against  her  lids,  which  were  beginning  to  swell  with 
weeping. 

"I  won't — I  won't  go  there  looking  like  a  hor 
ror!"  she  muttered,  springing  up  and  pushing  back 
her  hair  as  if  it  stifled  her.  She  opened  the  drawer, 
dragged  out  the  register,  and  turned  toward  the 
door.  As  she  did  so  it  opened,  and  the  young 
man  from  Miss  Hatchard's  came  in  whistling. 


IV 


HE  stopped  and  lifted  his  hat  with  a  shy  smile. 
"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said.  "I  thought 
there  was  no  one  here." 

Charity  stood  before  him,  barring  his  way.  "You 
can't  come  in.  The  library  ain't  open  to  the  pub 
lic  Wednesdays." 

"I  know  it's  not;  but  my  cousin  gave  me  her 
key." 

"Miss  Hatchard's  got  no  right  to  give  her  key 
to  other  folks,  any  more'n  I  have.  I'm  the  librarian 
and  I  know  the  by-laws.  This  is  my  library." 

The  young  man   looked   profoundly   surprised. 

"Why,  I  know  it  is;  I'm  so  sorry  if  you  mind 
my  coming." 

"I  suppose  you  came  to  see  what  more  you  could 
say  to  set  her  against  me?  But  you  needn't  trou 
ble:  it's  my  library  today,  but  it  won't  be  this  time 
tomorrow.  I'm  on  the  way  now  to  take  her  back 
the  key  and  the  register." 

Young  Harney's  face  grew  grave,  but  without 

[46] 


SUMMER 

betraying  the  consciousness  of  guilt  she  had  looked 
for. 

"I  don't  understand,"  he  said.  "There  must  be 
some  mistake.  Why  should  I  say  things  against 
you  to  Miss  Hatchard — or  to  anyone?" 

The  apparent  evasiveness  of  the  reply  caused 
Charity's  indignation  to  overflow.  "I  don't  know 
why  you  should.  I  could  understand  Orma  Fry's 
doing  it,  because  she's  always  wanted  to  get  me  out 
of  here  ever  since  the  first  day.  I  can't  see  why, 
when  she's  got  her  own  home,  and  her  father  to 
work  for  her;  nor  Ida  Targatt,  neither,  when  she 
got  a  legacy  from  her  step-brother  on'y  last  year. 
But  anyway  we  all  live  in  the  same  place,  and  _when 
it's  a  place  like  North  Dormer  it's  enough  to  make 
people  hate  each  other  just  to  have  to  walk  down 
the  same  street  every  day.  But  you  don't  live  here, 
and  you  don't  know  anything  about  any  of  us,  so 
what  did  you  have  to  meddle  for  ?  Do  you  suppose 
the  other  girls'd  have  kept  the  books  any  better'n  I 
did?  Why,  Orma  Fry  don't  hardly  know  a  book 
from  a  flat-iron!  And  what  if  I  don't  always  sit 
round  here  doing  nothing  till  it  strikes  five  up  at  the 
church?  Who  cares  if  the  library's  open  or  shut? 
Do  you  suppose  anybody  ever  comes  here  for  books  ? 

[47] 


SUMMER 

What  they'd  like  to  come  for  is  to  meet  the  fel 
lows  they're  going  with — if  I'd  let  'em.  But  I 
wouldn't  let  Bill  Sollas  from  over  the  hill  hang 
round  here  waiting  for  the  youngest  Targatt  girl, 
because  I  know  him  .  .  .  that's  all  ...  even  if 
I  don't  know  about  books  all  I  ought  to.  .  .  .  ' 

She  stopped  with  a  choking  in  her  throat.  Trem 
ors  of  rage  were  running  through  her,  and  she 
steadied  herself  against  the  edge  of  the  desk  lest 
he  should  see  her  weakness. 

What  he  saw  seemed  to  affect  him  deeply,  for 
he  grew  red  under  his  sunburn,  and  stammered  out : 
"But,  Miss  Royall,  I  assure  you  ...  I  assure 
you  ...  " 

His  distress  inflamed  her  anger,  and  she  regained 
her  voice  to  fling  back :  "If  I  was  you  I'd  have  the 
nerve  to  stick  to  what  I  said !" 

The  taunt  seemed  to  restore  his  presence  of  mind. 
"I  hope  I  should  if  I  knew;  but  I  don't.  Appar 
ently  something  disagreeable  has  happened,  for 
which  you  think  I'm  to  blame.  But  I  don't  know 
what  it  is,  because  I've  been  up  on  Eagle  Ridge 
ever  since  the  early  morning." 

"I  don't  know  where  you've  been  this  morning, 
but  I  know  you  were  here  in  this  library  yesterday ; 

[48] 


SUMMER 

and  it  was  you  that  went  home  and  told  your  cousin 
the  books  were  in  bad  shape,  and  brought  her  round 
to  see  how  I'd  neglected  them." 

Young  Harney  looked  sincerely  concerned.  "Was 
that  what  you  were  told?  I  don't  wonder  you're 
angry.  The1  books  are  in  bad  shape,  and  as  some 
are  interesting  it's  a  pity.  I  told  Miss  Hatchard 
they  were  suffering  from  dampness  and  lack  of 
air;  and  I  brought  her  here  to  show  her  how  easily 
the  place  could  be  ventilated.  I  also  told  her  you 
ought  to  have  some  one  to  help  you  do  the  dust 
ing  and  airing.  If  you  were  given  a  wrong  ver 
sion  of  what  I  said  I'm  sorry;  but  I'm  so  fond 
of  old  books  that  I'd  rather  see  them  made  into 
a  bonfire  than  left  to  moulder  away  like  these." 

Charity  felt  her  sobs  rising  and  tried  to  stifle 
them  in  words.  "I  don't  care  what  you  say  you 
told  her.  All  I  know  is  she  thinks  it's  all  my 
fault,  and  I'm  going  to  lose  my  job,  and  I  wanted 
it  more'n  anyone  in  the  village,  because  I  haven't 
got  anybody  belonging  to  me,  the  way  other  folks 
have.  All  I  wanted  was  to  put  aside  money  enough 
to  get  away  from  here  sometime.  D'you  suppose 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  that  I'd  have  kept  on  sitting 
day  after  day  in  this  old  vault?" 
4  [49] 


SUMMER 

Of  this  appeal  her  hearer  took  up  only  the  last 
question.  "It  is  an  old  vault;  but  need  it  be? 
That's  the  point.  And  it's  my  putting  the  ques 
tion  to  my  cousin  that  seems  to  have  been  the 
cause  of  the  trouble."  His  glance  explored  the 
melancholy  penumbra  of  the  long  narrow  room, 
resting  on  the  blotched  walls,  the  discoloured  rows 
of  books,  and  the  stern  rosewood  desk  surmounted 
by  the  portrait  of  the  young  Honorius.  "Of  course 
it's  a  bad  job  to  do  anything  with  a  building  jammed 
against  a  hill  like  this  ridiculous  mausoleum :  you 
couldn't  get  a  good  draught  through  it  without 
blowing  a  hole  in  the  mountain.  But  it  can  be 
ventilated  after  a  fashion,  and  the  sun  can  be  let 
in :  I'll  show  you  how  if  you  like.  .  .  ."  The  archi 
tect's  passion  for  improvement  had  already  made 
\J  him  lose  sight  of  her  grievance,  and  he  lifted  his 
stick  instructively  toward  the  cornice.  But  her 
silence  seemed  to  tell  him  that  she  took  no  in 
terest  in  the  ventilation  of  the  library,  and  turning 
back  to  her  abruptly  he  held  out  both  hands.  "Look 
here — you  don't  mean  what  you  said?  You  don't 
really  think  I'd  do  anything  to  hurt  you?" 

A  new  note  in  his  voice  disarmed  her:  no  one 
had  ever  spoken  to  her  in  that  tone. 

[50] 


SUMMER 

"Oh,  what  did  you  do  it  for  then?"  she  wailed. 
He  had  her  hands  in  his,  and  she  was  feeling  the 
smooth  touch  that  she  had  imagined  the  day  be 
fore  on  the  hillside. 

He  pressed  her  hands  lightly  and  let  them  go. 
"Why,  to  make  things  pleasanter  for  you  here ;  and 
better  for  the  books,  I'm  sorry  if  my  cousin 
twisted  around  what  I  said.  She's  excitable,  and 
she  lives  on  trifles:  I  ought  to  have  remembered 
that.  Don't  punish  me  by  letting  her  think  you 
take  her  seriously/' 

It  was  wonderful  to  hear  him  speak  of  Miss 
Hatchard  as  if  she  were  a  querulous  baby :  in  spite 
of  his  shyness  he  had  the  air  of  power  that  the  ex 
perience  of  cities  probably  gave.  It  was  the  fact 
of  having  lived  in  Nettleton  that  made  lawyer 
Royall,  in  spite  of  his  infirmities,  the  strongest  man 
in  North  Dormer;  and  Charity  was  sure  that  this 
young  man  had  lived  in  bigger  places  than  Nettle- 
ton. 

She  felt  that  if  she  kept  up  her  denunciatory  tone 
he  would  secretly  class  her  with  Miss  Hatchard; 
and  the  thought  made  her  suddenly  simple. 

"It  don't  matter  to  Miss  Hatchard  how  I  take 
her.  Mr.  Royall  says  she's  going  to  get  a  trained 

[51] 


SUMMER 

librarian;  and  I'd  sooner  resign  than  have  the  vil 
lage  say  she  sent  me  away." 

"Naturally  you  would.  But  I'm  sure  she  doesn't 
mean  to  send  you  away.  At  any  rate,  won't  you 
give  me  the  chance  to  find  out  first  and  let  you 
know?  It  will  be  time  enough  to  resign  if  I'm 
mistaken." 

Her  pride  flamed  into  her  cheeks  at  the  suggestion 
of  his  intervening.  "I  don't  want  anybody  should 
coax  her  to  keep  me  if  I  don't  suit." 

He  coloured  too.  "I  give  you  my  word  I  won't 
do  that.  Only  wait  till  tomorrow,  will  you?"  He 
looked  straight  into  her  eyes  with  his  shy  grey 
glance.  "You  can  trust  me,  you  know — you  really 
can." 

All  the  old  frozen  woes  seemed  to  melt  in  her, 
and  she  murmured  awkwardly,  looking  away  from 
him:  "Oh,  I'll  wait." 


V 


THERE  had  never  been  such  a  June  in  Eagle 
County.  Usually  it  was  a  month  of  moods, 
with  abrupt  alternations  of  belated  frost  and  mid 
summer  heat;  this  year,  day  followed  day  in  a 
'sequence  of  temperate  beauty.  Every  morning 
a  breeze  blew  steadily  from  the  hills.  Toward 
noon  it  built  up  great  canopies  of  white  cloud  that 
threw  a  cool  shadow  over  fields  and  woods;  then 
before  sunset  the  clouds  dissolved  again,  and  the 
western  light  rained  its  unobstructed  brightness 
on  the  valley. 

On  such  an  afternoon  Charity  Royall  lay  on  a 
ridge  above  a  sunlit  hollow,  her  face  pressed  to  the 
earth  and  the  warm  currents  of  the  grass  running 
through  her.  Directly  in  her  line  of  vision  a  black 
berry  branch  laid  its  frail  white  flowers  and  blue- 
green  leaves  against  the  sky.  Just  beyond,  a  tuft 
of  sweet- fern  uncurled  between  the  beaded  shoots 
of  the  grass,  and  a  small  yellow  butterfly  vibrated 
over  them  like  a  fleck  of  sunshine.  This  was  all 

[53] 


SUMMER 

she  saw;  but  she  felt,  above  her  and  about  her, 
the  strong  growth  of  the  beeches  clothing  the  ridge, 
the  rounding  of  pale  green  cones  on  countless 
spruce-branches,  the  push  of  myriads  of  sweet- fern 
fronds  in  the  cracks  of  the  stony  slope  below  the 
wood,  and  the  crowding  shoots  of  meadowsweet 
and  yellow  flags  in  the  pasture  beyond.  All  this 
bubbling  of  sap  and  slipping  of  sheaths  and  burst 
ing  of  calyxes  was  carried  to  her  on  mingled  cur 
rents  of  fragrance.  Every  leaf  and  bud  and  blade 
seemed  to  contribute  its  exhalation  to  the  pervad 
ing  sweetness  in  which  the  pungency  of  pine-sap 
prevailed  over  the  spice  of  thyme  and  the  subtle 
perfume  of  fern,  and  all  were  merged  in  a  moist 
earth-smell  that  was  like  the  breath  of  some  huge 
sun-warmed  animal. 

Charity  had  lain  there  a  long  time,  passive  and 
sun-warmed  as  the  slope  on  which  she  lay,  when 
there  came  between  her  eyes  and  the  dancing  but 
terfly  the  sight  of  a  man's  foot  in  a  large  worn 
boot  covered  with  red  mud. 

"Oh,  don't!"  she  exclaimed,  raising  herself  on 
her  elbow  and  stretching  out  a  warning  hand. 

"Don't  what?"  a  hoarse  voice  asked  above  her 
head. 

[54] 


SUMMER 

"Don't  stamp  on  those  bramble  flowers,  you  dolt !" 
she  retorted,  springing  to  her'  knees.  The  foot 
paused  and  then  descended  clumsily  on  the  frail 
branch,  and  raising  her  eyes  she  saw  above  her  the 
bewildered  face  of  a  slouching  man  with  a  thin 
sunburnt  beard,  and  white  arms  showing  through 
his  ragged  shirt. 

"Don't  you  ever  see  anything,  Lift  Hyatt?"  she 
assailed  him,  as  he  stood  before  her  with  the  look 
of  a  man  who  has  stirred  up  a  wasp's  nest. 

He  grinned.  "I  seen  you!  That's  what  I  come 
down  for." 

"Down  from  where?"  she  questioned,  stooping 
to  gather  up  the  petals  his  foot  had  scattered. 

He  jerked  his  thumb  toward  the  heights.  "Been 
cutting  down  trees  for  Dan  Targatt." 

Charity  sank  back  on  her  heels  and  looked  at 
him  musingly.  She  was  not  in  the  least  afraid  of 
poor  Liff  Hyatt,  though  he  "came  from  the  Moun 
tain,"  and  some  of  the  girls  ran  when  they  saw 
him.  Among  the  more  reasonable  he  passed  for 
a  harmless  creature,  a  sort  of  link  between  the 
mountain  and  civilized  folk,  who  occasionally  came 
down  and  did  a  little  wood-cutting  for  a  farmer 
when  hands  were  short.  Besides,  she  knew  the 

[55] 


SUMMER 

Mountain  people  would  never  hurt  her:  Liff  him 
self  had  told  her  so  once  when  she  was  a  little 
girl,  and  had  met  him  one  day  at  the  edge  of 
lawyer  RoyalPs  pasture.  "They  won't  any  of  'em 
touch  you  up  there,  fever  you  was  to  come 
up.  .  .  .  But  I  don't  s'pose  you  will,"  he  had  added 
philosophically,  looking  at  her  new  shoes,  and 
at  the  red  ribbon  that  Mrs.  Royall  had  tied  in  her 
hair. 

Charity  had,  in  truth,  never  felt  any  desire  to 
visit  her  birthplace.  She  did  not  care  to  have 
it  known  that  she  was  of  the  Mountain,  and  was 
shy  of  being  seen  in  talk  with  Liff  Hyatt.  But 
today  she  was  not  sorry  to  have  him  appear.  A 
great  many  things  had  happened  to  her  since  the 
day  when  young  Lucius  Harney  had  entered  the 
doors  of  the  Hatchard  Memorial,  but  none,  perhaps, 
so  unforeseen  as  the  fact  of  her  suddenly  finding 
it  a  convenience  to  be  on  good  terms  with  Liff 
Hyatt.  She  continued  to  look  up  curiously  at  his 
freckled  weather-beaten  face,  with  feverish  hol 
lows  below  the  cheekbones  and  the  pale  yellow  eyes 
of  a  harmless  animal.  "I  wonder  if  he's  re 
lated  to  me?"  she  thought,  with  a  shiver  of  dis 
dain. 

[56] 


SUMMER 

"Is  there  any  folks  living  in  the  brown  house 
by  the  swamp,  up  under  Porcupine?"  she  presently 
asked  in  an  indifferent  tone. 

Liff  Hyatt,  for  a  while,  considered  her  with  sur 
prise;  then  he  scratched  his  head  and  shifted  his 
weight  from  one  tattered  sole  to  the  other. 

"There's  always  the  same  folks  in  the  brown 
house/'  he  said  with  his  vague  grin. 

"They're  from  up  your  way,  ain't  they?" 

"Their  name's  the  same  as  mine,"  he  rejoined 
uncertainly. 

Charity  still  held  him  with  resolute  eyes.  "See 
here,  I  want  to  go  there  some  day  and  take  a 
gentleman  with  me  that's  boarding  with  us.  He's 
up  in  these  parts  drawing  pictures." 

She  did  not  offer  to  explain  this  statement.  It 
was  too  far  beyond  Liff  Hyatt's  limitations  for 
the  attempt  to  be  worth  making.  "He  wants  to 
see  the  brown  house,  and  go  all  over  it,"  she  pur 
sued. 

Liff  was  still  running  his  fingers  perplexedly 
through  his  shock  of  straw-colored  hair.  "Is  it  a 
fellow  from  the  city?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.  He  draws  pictures  of  things.  He's  down 
there  now  drawing  the  Bonner  house."  She 

[57] 


SUMMER 

pointed  to  a  chimney  just  visible  over  the  dip  of 
the  pasture  below  the  wood. 

'The  Bonner  house?"  Liff  echoed  incredulously. 

"Yes.  You  won't  understand — and  it  don't  mat 
ter.  All  I  say  is :  he's  going  to  the  Hyatts'  in  a 
day  or  two." 

Liff  looked  more  and  more  perplexed.  "Bash  is 
ugly  sometimes  in  the  afternoons." 

"I  know.  But  I  guess  he  won't  trouble  me." 
She  threw  her  head  back,  her  eyes  full  on  Hyatt's. 
"I'm  coming  too:  you  tell  him." 

"They  won't  none  of  them  trouble  you,  trie 
Hyatts  won't.  What  d'you  want  a  take  a  stranger 
with  you,  though?" 

"I've  told  you,  haven't  I?  You've  got  to  tell 
Bash  Hyatt." 

He  looked  away  at  the  blue  mountains  on  the 
horizon;  then  his  gaze  dropped  to  the  chimney-top 
below  the  pasture. 

"He's  down  there  now?" 

"Yes." 

He  shifted  his  weight  again,  crossed  his  arms, 
and  continued  to  survey  the  distant  landscape. 
"Well,  so  long,"  he  said  at  last,  inconclusively ;  and 
turning  away  he  shambled  up  the  hillside.  From 

[58] 


SUMMER 

the  ledge  above  her,  he  paused  to  call  down:  "I 
wouldn't  go  there  a  Sunday";  then  he  clambered 
on  till  the  trees  closed  in  on  him.  Presently,  from 
high  overhead,  Charity  heard  the  ring  of  his  axe. 

She  lay  on  the  warm  ridge,  thinking  of  many 
things  that  the  woodsman's  appearance  had  stirred 
up  in  her.  She  knew  nothing  of  her  early  life,  and 
had  never  felt  any  curiosity  about  it:  only  a  sul 
len  reluctance  to  explore  the  corner  of  her  memory 
where  certain  blurred  images  lingered.  But  all 
that  had  happened  to  her  within  the  last  few  weeks 
had  stirred  her  to  the  sleeping  depths.  She  had 
become  absorbingly  interesting  to  herself,  and  every 
thing  that  had  to  do  with  her  past  was  illuminated 
by  this  sudden  curiosity. 

She  hated  more  than  ever  the  fact  of  coming 
from  the  Mountain;  but  it  was  no  longer  indif 
ferent  to  her.  Everything  that  in  any.  way  af 
fected  her  was  alive  and  vivid :  even  the  hateful 
things  had  grown  interesting  because  they  were 
a  part  of  herself. 

"I  wonder  if  Liff  Hyatt  knows  who  my  mother 
was?"  she  mused;  and  it  filled  her  with  a  tremor 
of  surprise  to  think  that  some  woman  who  was 

[59] 


SUMMER 

once  young  and  slight,  with  quick  motions  of  the 
blood  like  hers,  had  carried  her  in  her  breast,  and 
watched  her  sleeping.  She  had  always  thought  of 
her  mother  as  so  long  dead  as  to  be  no  more  than 
a  nameless  pinch  of  earth;  but  now  it  occurred  to 
her  that  the  once-young  woman  might  be  alive, 
and  wrinkled  and  elf -locked  like  the  woman  she 
had  sometimes  seen  in  the  door  of  the  brown  house 
that  Lucius  Harney  wanted  to  draw. 

The  thought  brought  him  back  to  the  central 
point  in  her  mind,  and  she  strayed  away  from  the 
conjectures  roused  by  Liff  Hyatt's  presence.  Spec 
ulations  concerning  the  past  could  not  hold  her 
long  when  the  present  was  so  rich,  the  future  so 
rosy,  and  when  Lucius  Harney,  a  stone's  throw 
away,  was  bending  over  his  sketch-book,  frowning, 
calculating,  measuring,  and  then  throwing  his  head 
back  with  the  sudden  smile  that  had  shed  its  bright 
ness  over  everything. 

She  scrambled  to  her  feet,  but  as  she  did  so  she 
saw  him  coming  up  the  pasture  and  dropped  down 
on  the  grass  to  wait.  When  he  was  drawing  and 
measuring  one  of  "his  houses,"  as  she  called  them, 
she  often  strayed  away  by  herself  into  the  woods 
or  up  the  hillside.  It  was  partly  from  shyness  that 

[60] 


SUMMER 

she  did  so:  from  a  sense  of  inadequacy  that  came 
to  her  most  painfully  when  her  companion,  ab 
sorbed  in  his  job,  forgot  her  ignorance  and  her  ^ 
inability  to  follow  his  least  allusion,  and  plunged 
into  a  monologue  on  art  and  life.  To  avoid  the 
awkwardness  of  listening  with  a  blank  face,  and 
also  to  escape  the  surprised  stare  of  the  inhabitants 
of  the  houses  before  which  he  would  abruptly  pull 
up  their  horse  and  open  his  sketch-book,  she  slipped 
away  to  some  spot  from  which,  without  being  seen, 
she  could  watch  him  at  work,  or  at  least  look  down 
on  the  house  he  was  drawing.  She  had  not  been 
displeased,  at  first,  to  have  it  known  to  North  Dor 
mer  and  the  neighborhood  that  she  was  driving 
Miss  Hatchard's  cousin  about  the  country  in  the 
buggy  he  had  hired  of  lawyer  Royall.  She  had  al 
ways  kept  to  herself,  contemptuously  aloof  from 
village  love-making,  without  exactly  knowing 
whether  her  fierce  pride  was  due  to  the  sense  of 
her  tainted  origin,  or  whether  she  was  reserving 
herself  for  a  more  brilliant  fate.  Sometimes  she 
envied  the  other  girls  their  sentimental  preoccupa 
tions,  their  long  hours  of  inarticulate  philandering 
with  one  of  the  few  youths  who  still  lingered  in 
the  village;  but  when  she  pictured  herself  curling 

[61] 


SUMMER 

her  hair  or  putting  a  new  ribbon  on  her  hat  for 
Ben  Fry  or  one  of  the  Sollas  boys  the  fever  dropped 
and  she  relapsed  into  indifference. 

Now  she  knew  the  meaning  of  her  disdains  and 
reluctances.  She  had  learned  what  she  was  worth 
when  Lucius  Harney,  looking  at  her  for  the  first 
time,  had  lost  the  thread  of  his  speech,  and  leaned 
reddening  on  the  edge  of  her  desk.  But  another 
kind  of  shyness  ,had  been  born  in  her :  a  terror  of 
exposing  to  vulgar  perils  the  sacred  treasure  of  her 
happiness.  She  was  not  sorry  to  have  the  neigh 
bors  suspect  her  of  "going  with"  a  young  man  from 
the  city;  but  she  did  not  want  it  known  to  all  the 
countryside  how  many  hours  of  the  long  June 
days  she  spent  with  him.  What  she  most  feared 
was  that  the  inevitable  comments  should  reach  Mr. 
Royall.  Charity  was  instinctively  aware  that  few 
things  concerning  her  escaped  the  eyes  of  the  silent 
man  under  whose  roof  she  lived;  and  in  spite  of 
the  latitude  which  North  Dormer  accorded  to  court 
ing  couples  she  had  always  felt  that,  on  the  day 
when  she  showed  too  open  a  preference,  Mr.  Royall 
might,  as  she  phrased  it,  make  her  "pay  for  it." 
How,  she  did  not  know;  and  her  fear  was  the 
greater  because  it  was  undefinable.  If  she  had  been 

[62] 


SUMMER 

accepting  the  attentions  of  one  of  the  village  youths 
she  would  have  been  less  apprehensive :  Mr.  Royall 
could  not  prevent  her  marrying  when  she  chose  to. 
But  everybody  knew  that  "going  with  a  city  fellow" 
was  a  different  and  less  straightforward  affair :  al 
most  every  village  could  show  a  victim  of  the  peril 
ous  venture.  And  her  dread  of  Mr.  Royall's  in 
tervention  gave  a  sharpened  joy  to  the  hours  she 
spent  with  young  Harney,  and  made  her,  at  the 
same  time,  shy  of  being  too  generally  seen  with  him. 

As  he  approached  she  rose  to  her  knees,  stretch 
ing  her  arms  above  her  head  with  the  indolent  ges 
ture  that  was  her  way  of  expressing  a  profound 
well-being. 

"I'm  going  to  take  you  to  that  house  up  under 
Porcupine,"  she  announced. 

"What  house?  Oh,  yes;  that  ramshackle  place 
near  the  swamp,  with  the  gipsy-looking  people  hang 
ing  about.  It's  curious  that  a  house  with  traces 
of  real  architecture  should  have  been  built  in  such 
a  place.  But  the  people  were  a  sulky-looking  lot — 
do  you  suppose  they'll  let  us  in?" 

"They'll  do  whatever  I  tell  them,"  she  said  with 
assurance. 

He  threw  himself  down  beside  her.  "Will  they  ?" 
[6*1 


SUMMER 

he  rejoined  with  a  smile.  "Well,  I  should  like 
to  see  what's  left  inside  the  house.  And  I  should 
like  to  have  a  talk  with  the  people.  Who  was  it 
who  was  telling  me  the  other  day  that  they  had 
come  down  from  the  Mountain?" 

Charity  shot  a  sideward  look  at  him.  It  was 
the  first  time  he  had  spoken  of  the  Mountain  ex 
cept  as  a  feature  of  the  landscape.  What  else  did 
he  know  about  it,  and  about  her  relation  to  it? 
Her  heart  began  to  beat  with  the  fierce  impulse 
/  of  resistance  which  she  instinctively  opposed  to 
every  imagined  slight. 

"The  Mountain?  I  ain't  afraid  of  the  Moun 
tain  !" 

Her  tone  of  defiance  seemed  to  escape  him.  He 
lay  breast-down  on  the  grass,  breaking  off  sprigs 
of  thyme  and  pressing  them  against  his  lips.  Far 
off,  above  the  folds  of  the  nearer  hills,  the  Moun 
tain  thrust  itself  up  menacingly  against  a  yellow 
sunset. 

"I  must  go  up  there  some  day:  I  want  to  see 
it,"  he  continued. 

Her  heart-beats  slackened  and  she  turned  again 
to  examine  his  profile.  It  was  innocent  of  all  un 
friendly  intention. 

[64] 


SUMMER 

"What'd  you  want  to  go  up  the  Mountain  for?" 

"Why,  it  must  be  rather  a  curious  place.    There's 
a  queer  colony  up  there,  you  know:  sort  of  out 
laws,   a   little   independent  kingdom.       Of  course 
you've  heard  them  spoken  of;  but  I'm  told  they 
have  nothing  to  do  with  the  people  in  the  valleys 
— rather  look  down  on  them,  in  fact.     I  suppose       / 
they're  rough  customers;   but  they  must  have  a     * 
good  deal  of  character." 

She  did  not  quite  know  what  he  meant  by  hav 
ing  a  good  deal  of  character;  but  his  tone  was  ex 
pressive  of  admiration,  and  deepened  her  dawning 
curiosity.  It  struck  her  now  as  strange  that  she 
knew  so  little  about  the  Mountain.  She  had  never 
asked,  and  no  one  had  ever  offered  to  enlighten 
her.  North  Dormer  took  the  Mountain  for  granted, 
and  implied  its  disparagement  by  an  intonation 
rather  than  by  explicit  criticism. 

"It's  queer,  you  know,"  he  continued,  "that,  just 
over  there,  on  top  of  that  hill,  there  should  be  a 
handful  of  people  who  don't  give  a  damn  for  any 
body." 

The  words  thrilled  her.  They  seemed  the  clue 
to  her  own  revolts  and  defiances,  and  she  longed 
to  have  him  tell  her  more. 

5  [65] 


SUMMER 

"I  don't  know  much  about  them.  Have  they  al 
ways  been  there?" 

"Nobody  seems  to  know  exactly  how  long.  Down 
at  Creston  they  told  me  that  the  first  colonists  are 
supposed  to  have  been  men  who  worked  on  the 
railway  that  was  built  forty  or  fifty  years  ago 
between  Springfield  and  Nettleton.  Some  of  them 
took  to  drink,  or  got  into  trouble  with  the  police, 
and  went  off — disappeared  into  the  woods.  A  year 
or  two  later  there  was  a  report  that  they  were 
living  up  on  the  Mountain.  Then  I  suppose  others 
joined  them — and  children  were  born.  Now  they 
say  there  are  over  a  hundred  people  up  there.  They 
seem  to  be  quite  outside  the  jurisdiction  of  the  val 
leys.  No  school,  no  church — and  no  sheriff  ever 
goes  up  to  see  what  they're  about.  But  don't  people 
ever  talk  of  them  at  North  Dormer?" 

"I  don't  know.    They  say  they're  bad." 

He  laughed.  "Do  they?  We'll  go  and  see,  shall 
we?" 

She  flushed  at  the  suggestion,  and  turned  her 
face  to  his.  "You  never  heard,  I  suppose — I  come 
from  there.  They  brought  me  down  when  I  was 
little." 

"You?"  He  raised  himself  on  his  elbow,  look- 
[66] 


SUMMER 

ing  at  her  with  sudden  interest.  "You're  from  the 
Mountain?  How  curious!  I  suppose  that's  why 
you're  so  different.  ..." 

Her  happy  blood  bathed  her  to  the  forehead.  He 
was  praising  her — and  praising  her  because  she  came 
from  the  Mountain! 

"Am  I  ...  different?"  she  triumphed,  with  af 
fected  wonder. 

"Oh,  awfully!"  He  picked  up  her  hand  and 
laid  a  kiss  on  the  sunburnt  knuckles. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "let's  be  off."  He  stood  up  and 
shook  the  grass  from  his  loose  grey  clothes.  "What 
a  good  day !  Where  are  you  going  to  take  me  to 
morrow?" 


VI 


THAT  evening  after  supper  Charity  sat  alone 
in  the  kitchen  and  listened  to  Mr.  Royall 
and  young  Harney  talking  in  the  porch. 

She  had  remained  indoors  after  the  table  had 
been  cleared  and  old  Verena  had  hobbled  up  to  bed. 
The  kitchen  window  was  open,  and  Charity  seated 
herself  near  it,  her  idle  hands  on  her  knee.  The 
evening  was  cool  and  still.  Beyond  the  black  hills 
an  amber  west  passed  into  pale  green,  and  then 
to  a  deep  blue  in  which  a  great  star  hung.  The  soft 
hoot  of  a  little  owl  came  through  the  dusk,  and  be 
tween  its  calls  the  men's  voices  rose  and  fell. 

Mr.  RoyalPs  was  full  of  a  sonorous  satisfaction. 
It  was  a  long  time  since  he  had  had  anyone  of 
Lucius  Harney's  quality  to  talk  to :  Charity  divined 
that  the  young  man  symbolized  all  his  ruined  and 
unforgotten  past.  When  Miss  Hatchard  had  been 
called  to  Springfield  by  the  illness  of  a  widowed 
sister,  and  young  Harney,  by  that  time  seriously 
embarked  on  his  task  of  drawing  and  measuring  all 

[68] 


SUMMER 

the  old  houses  between  Nettleton  and  the  New 
Hampshire  border,  had  suggested  the  possibility  of 
boarding  at  the  red  house  in  his  cousin's  absence, 
Charity  had  trembled  lest  Mr.  Royall  should  re 
fuse.  There  had  been  no  question  of  lodging  the 
young  man :  there  was  no  room  for  him.  But  it 
appeared  that  he  could  still  live  at  Miss  Hatchard's 
if  Mr.  Royall  would  let  him  take  his  meals  at  the 
red  house;  and  after  a  day's  deliberation  Mr.  Royall 
consented. 

Charity  suspected  him  of  being  glad  of  the  chance 
to  make  a  little  money.  He  had  the  reputation  of 
being  an  avaricious  man ;  but  she  was  beginning  to 
think  he  was  probably  poorer  than  people  knew. 
His  practice  had  become  little  more  than  a  vague 
legend,  revived  only  at  lengthening  intervals  by  a 
summons  to  Hepburn  or  Nettleton ;  and  he  appeared 
to  depend  for  his  living  mainly  on  the  scant  produce 
of  his  farm,  and  on  the  commissions  received  from 
the  few  insurance  agencies  that  he  represented  in 
the  neighbourhood.  At  any  rate,  he  had  been  prompt 
in  accepting  Harney's  offer  to  hire  the  buggy  at  a 
dollar  and  a  half  a  day;  and  his  satisfaction  with 
the  bargain  had  manifested  itself,  unexpectedly 
enough,  at  the  end  of  the  first  week,  by  his  tossing 

[69] 


SUMMER 

a  ten-dollar  bill  into  Charity's  lap  as  she  sat  one 
day  retrimming  her  old  hat. 

"Here — go  get  yourself  a  Sunday  bonnet  that'll 
make  all  the  other  girls  mad/'  he  said,  looking  at 
her  with  a  sheepish  twinkle  in  his  deep-set  eyes ; 
and  she  immediately  guessed  that  the  unwonted 
present — the  only  gift  of  money  she  had  ever  re 
ceived  from  him — represented  Harney's  first  pay 
ment. 

But  the  young  man's  coming  had  brought  Mr. 
Royall  other  than  pecuniary  benefit.  It  gave  him, 
for  the  first  time  in  years,  a  man's  companionship. 
Charity  had  only  a  dim  understanding  of  her  guard 
ian's  needs;  but  she  knew  he  felt  himself  above 
the  people  among  whom  he  lived,  and  she  saw  that 
Lucius  Harney  thought  him  so.  She  was  surprised 
to  find  how  well  he  seemed  to  talk  now  that  he 
had  a  listener  who  understood  him;  and  she  was 
equally  struck  by  young  Harney's  friendly  defer 
ence. 

Their  conversation  was  mostly  about  politics,  and 
beyond  her  range;  but  tonight  it  had  a  peculiar 
interest  for  her,  for  they  had  begun  to  speak  of 
the  Mountain.  She  drew  back  a  little,  lest  they 
should  see  she  was  in  hearing. 


SUMMER 

"The  Mountain?  The  Mountain?"  she  heard 
Mr.  Royall  say.  "Why,  the  Mountain's  a  blot — 
that's  what  it  is,  sir,  a  blot.  That  scum  up  there 
ought  to  have  been  run  in  long  ago — and  would 
have,  if  the  people  down  here  hadn't  been  clean 
scared  of  them.  The  Mountain  belongs  to  this 
township,  and  it's  North  Dormer's  fault  if  there's 
a  gang  of  thieves  and  outlaws  living  over  there,  in 
sight  of  us,  defying  the  laws  of  their  country. 
Why,  there  ain't  a  sheriff  or  a  tax-collector  or  a 
coroner'd  durst  go  up  there.  When  they  hear 
of  trouble  on  the  Mountain  the  selectmen  look 
the  other  way,  and  pass  an  appropriation  to  beautify 
the  town  pump.  The  only  man  that  ever  goes  up 
is  the  minister,  and  he  goes  because  they  send  down 
and  get  him  whenever  there's  any  of  them  dies. 
They  think  a  lot  of  Christian  burial  on  the  Moun 
tain — but  I  never  heard  of  their  having  the  min 
ister  up  to  marry  them.  And  they  never  trouble 
the  Justice  of  the  Peace  either.  They  just  herd 
together  like  the  heathen." 

He  went  on,  explaining  in  somewhat  technical 
language  how  the  little  colony  of  squatters  had 
contrived  to  keep  the  law  at  bay,  and  Charity,  with 
burning  eagerness,  awaited  young  Hartley's  com- 

" 


SUMMER 

ment;  but  the  young  man  seemed  more  concerned 
to  hear  Mr.  Royall's  views  than  to  express  his 
own. 

"I  suppose  youVe  never  been  up  there  yourself  ?" 
he  presently  asked. 

"Yes,  I  have,"  said  Mr.  Royall  with  a  contemp 
tuous  laugh.  "The  wiseacres  down  here  told  me 
I'd  be  done  for  before  I  got  back;  but  nobody  lifted 
a  finger  to  hurt  me.  And  I'd  just  had  one  of  their 
gang  sent  up  for  seven  years  too." 

"You  went  up  after  that?" 

"Yes,  sir :  right  after  it.  The  fellow  came  down 
to  Nettleton  and  ran  amuck,  the  way  they  some 
times  do.  After  they've  done  a  wood-cutting  job 
they  come  down  and  blow  the  money  in;  and  this 
man  ended  up  with  manslaughter.  I  got  him  con 
victed,  though  they  were  scared  of  the  Mountain 
even  at  Nettleton ;  and  then  a  queer  thing  happened. 
The  fellow  sent  for  me  to  go  and  see  him  in  gaol. 
I  went,  and  this  is  what  he  says:  The  fool  that 

defended  me  is  a  chicken-livered  son  of  a  

and  all  the  rest  of  it,'  he  says.  'I've  got  a  job  to 
be  done  for  me  up  on  the  Mountain,  and  you're 
the  only  man  I  seen  in  court  that  looks  as  if  he'd 
do  it.'  He  told  me  he  had  a  child  up  there — or 

[72] 


SUMMER 

thought  he  had — a  little  girl;  and  he  wanted  her 
brought  down  and  reared  like  a  Christian.  I  was 
sorry  for  the  fellow,  so  I  went  up  and  got  the 
child."  He  paused,  and  Charity  listened  with  a 
throbbing  heart.  "That's  the  only  time  I  ever  went 
up  the  Mountain,"  he  concluded. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence;  then  Harney 
spoke.  "And  the  child — had  she  no  mother?" 

"Oh,  yes:  there  was  a  mother.  But  she  was 
glad  enough  to  have  her  go.  She'd  have  given 
her  to  anybody.  They  ain't  half  human  up  there. 
I  guess  the  mother's  dead  by  now,  with  the  life 
she  was  leading.  Anyhow,  I've  never  heard  of  her 
from  that  day  to  this." 

"My  God,  how  ghastly,"  Harney  murmured ;  and 
Charity,  choking  with  humiliation,  sprang  to  her 
feet  and  ran  upstairs.  She  knew  at  last :  knew  that 
she  was  the  child  of  a  drunken  convict  and  of  a 
mother  who  wasn't  "half  human,"  and  was  glad 
to  have  her  go;  and  she  had  heard  this  history  of 
her  origin  related  to  the  one  being  in  whose  eyes 
she  longed  to  appear  superior  to  the  people  about 
her!  She  had  noticed  that  Mr.  Royall  had  not 
named  her,  had  even  avoided  any  allusion  that 
might  identify  her  with  the  child  he  had  brought 

[73] 


SUMMER 

down  from  the  Mountain;  and  she  knew  it  was 
out  of  regard  for  her  that  he  had  kept  silent.  But 
of  what  use  was  his  discretion,  since  only  that 
afternoon,  misled  by  Harney's  interest  in  the  out 
law  colony,  she  had  boasted  to  him  of  coming  from 
the  Mountain?  Now  every  word  that  had  been 
spoken  showed  her  how  such  an  origin  must  widen 
the  distance  between  them. 

During  his  ten  days'  sojourn  at  North  Dormer 
Lucius  Harney  had  not  spoken  a  word  of  love  to 
her.  He  had  intervened  in  her  behalf  with  his 
cousin,  and  had  convinced  Miss  Hatchard  of  her 
merits  as  a  librarian ;  but  that  was  a  simple  act  of 
justice,  since  it  was  by  his  own  fault  that  those 
merits  had  been  questioned.  He  had  asked  her 
to  drive  him  about  the  country  when  he  hired  law 
yer  Royall's  buggy  to  go  on  his  sketching  expedi 
tions;  but  that  too  was  natural  enough,  since  he 
was  unfamiliar  with  the  region.  Lastly,  when  his 
cousin  was  called  to  Springfield,  he  had  begged  Mr. 
Royall  to  receive  him  as  a  boarder;  but  where  else 
in  North  Dormer  could  he  have  boarded?  Not 
with  Carrick  Fry,  whose  wife  was  paralysed,  and 
whose  large  family  crowded  his  table  to  over-flow 
ing;  not  with  the  Targatts,  who  lived  a  mile  up 

[74] 


SUMMER 

the  road,  nor  with  poor  old  Mrs.  Hawes,  who,  since 
her  eldest  daughter  had  deserted  her,  barely  had 
the  strength  to  cook  her  own  meals  while  Ally 
picked  up  her  living  as  a  seamstress.  Mr.  Royall's 
was  the  only  house  where  the  young  man  could 
have  been  offered  a  decent  hospitality.  There  had 
been  nothing,  therefore,  in  the  outward  course  of 
events  to  raise  in  Charity's  breast  the  hopes  with 
which  it  trembled.  But  beneath  the  visible  incidents 
resulting  from  Lucius  Harney's  arrival  there  ran 
an  undercurrent  as  mysterious  and  potent  as  the 
influence  that  makes  the  forest  break  into  leaf  be- 
for  the  ice  is  off  the  pools. 

The  business  on  which  Harney  had  come  was  au 
thentic;  Charity  had  seen  the  letter  from  a  New 
York  publisher  commissioning  him  to  make  a  study 
of  the  eighteenth  century  houses  in  the  less  familiar 
districts  of  New  England.  But  incomprehensible  as 
the  whole  affair  was  to  her,  and  hard  as  she  found 
it  to  understand  why  he  paused  enchanted  before 
certain  neglected  and  paintless  houses,  while  others, 
refurbished  and  "improved"  by  the  local  builder, 
did  not  arrest  a  glance,  she  could  not  but  suspect 
that  Eagle  County  was  less  rich  in  architecture  than 
he  averred,  and  that  the  duration  of  his  stay  (which 

[75] 


SUMMER 

he  had  fixed  at  a  month)  was  not  unconnected  with 
the  look  in  his  eyes  when  he  had  first  paused  be 
fore  her  in  the  library.  Everything  that  had  fol 
lowed  seemed  to  have  grown  out  of  that  look :  his 
way  of  speaking  to  her,  his  quickness  in  catching 
her  meaning,  his  evident  eagerness  to  prolong  their 
excursions  and  to  seize  on  every  chance  of  being 
with  her. 

The  signs  of  his  liking  were  manifest  enough; 
but  it  was  hard  to  guess  how  much  they  meant,  be 
cause  his  manner  was  so  different  from  anything 
North  Dormer  had  ever  shown  her.  He  was  at 
once  simpler  and  more  deferential  than  any  one 
she  had  known;  and  sometimes  it  was  just  when 
he  was  simplest  that  she  most  felt  the  distance  be 
tween  them.  Education  and  opportunity  had  di 
vided  them  by  a  width  that  no  effort  of  hers  could 
bridge,  and  even  when  his  youth  and  his  admira 
tion  brought  him  nearest,  some  chance  word,  some 
unconscious  allusion,  seemed  to  thrust  her  back 
across  the  gulf. 

Never  had  it  yawned  so  wide  as  when  she  fled 
up  to  her  room  carrying  with  her  the  echo  of  Mr. 
Roy  all's  tale.  Her  first  confused  thought  was  the 
prayer  that  she  might  never  see  young  Harney 

[76] 


SUMMER 

again.  It  was  too  bitter  to  picture  him  as  the  de 
tached  impartial  listener  to  such  a  story.  "I  wish 
he'd  go  away :  I  wish  he'd  go  tomorrow,  and  never 
come  back !"  she  moaned  to  her  pillow ;  and  far  into 
the  night  she  lay  there,  in  the  disordered  dress  she 
had  forgotten  to  take  off,  her  whole  soul  a  tossing 
misery  on  which  her  hopes  and  dreams  spun  about 
like  drowning  straws. 

Of  all  this  tumult  only  a  vague  heart-soreness 
was  left  when  she  opened  her  eyes  the  next  morn 
ing.  Her  first  thought  was  of  the  weather,  for 
Harney  had  asked  her  to  take  him  to  the  brown 
house  under  Porcupine,  and  then  around  by  Ham- 
blin;  and  as  the  trip  was  a  long  one  they  were  to 
start  at  nine.  The  sun  rose  without  a  cloud,  and 
earlier  than  usual  she  was  in  the  kitchen,  making 
cheese  sandwiches,  decanting  buttermilk  into  a  bot 
tle,  wrapping  up  slices  of  apple  pie,  and  accusing 
Verena  of  having  given  away  a  basket  she  needed, 
which  had  always  hung  on  a  hook  in  the  passage. 
When  she  came  out  into  the  porch,  in  her  pink 
calico,  which  had  run  a  little  in  the  washing,  but 
was  still  bright  enough  to  set  off  her  dark  tints, 
she  had  such  a  triumphant  sense  of  being  a  part  of 

•    [77] 


SUMMER 

the  sunlight  and  the  morning  that  the  last  trace  of 
her  misery  vanished.  What  did  it  matter  where 
she  came  from,  or  whose  child  she  was,  when  love 
was  dancing  in  her  veins,  and  down  the  road  she 
saw  young  Harney  coming  toward  her? 

Mr.  Royall  was  in  the  porch  too.  He  had  said 
nothing  at  breakfast,  but  when  she  came  out  in 
her  pink  dress,  the  basket  in  her  hand,  he  looked 
at  her  with  surprise.  "Where  you  going  to?"  he 
asked. 

"Why — Mr.  Harney's  starting  earlier  than  usual 
today,"  she  answered. 

"Mr.  Harney,  Mr.  Harney?  Ain't  Mr.  Harney 
learned  how  to  drive  a  horse  yet?" 

She  made  no  answer,  and  he  sat  tilted  back  in 
his  chair,  drumming  on  the  rail  of  the  porch.  It 
was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  spoken  of  the  young 
man  in  that  tone,  and  Charity  felt  a  faint  chill  of 
apprehension.  After  a  moment  he  stood  up  and 
walked  away  toward  the  bit  of  ground  behind  the 
house,  where  the  hired  man  was  hoeing. 

The  air  was  cool  and  clear,  with  the  autumnal 
sparkle  that  a  north  wind  brings  to  the  hills  in 
early  summer,  and  the  night  had  been  so  still  that 
the  dew  hung  on  everything,  not  as  a  lingering 


SUMMER 

moisture,  but  in  separate  beads  that  glittered  like 
diamonds  on  the  ferns  and  grasses.  It  was  a  long 
drive  to  the  foot  of  Porcupine :  first  across  the  val 
ley,  with  blue  hills  bounding  the  open  slopes;  then 
down  into  the  beach-woods,  following  the  course 
of  the  Creston,  a  brown  brook  leaping  over  velvet 
ledges;  then  out  again  onto  the  farm-lands  about 
Creston  Lake,  and  gradually  up  the  ridges  of  the 
Eagle  Range.  At  last  they  reached  the  yoke  of 
the  hills,  and  before  them  opened  another  valley, 
green  and  wild,  and  beyond  it  more  blue  heights 
eddying  away  to  the  sky  like  the  waves  of  a  re 
ceding  tide. 

Harney  tied  the  horse  to  a  tree-stump,  and  they 
unpacked  their  basket  under  an  aged  walnut  with 
a  riven  trunk  out  of  which  bumblebees  darted. 
The  sun  had  grown  hot,  and  behind  them  was  the 
noonday  murmur  of  the  forest.  Summer  insects 
danced  on  the  air,  and  a  flock  of  white  butterflies 
fanned  the  mobile  tips  of  the  crimson  fireweed.  In 
the  valley  below  not  a  house  was  visible;  it  seemed 
as  if  Charity  Royall  and  young  Harney  were  the 
only  living  beings  in  the  great  hollow  of  earth  and 
sky. 

Charity's  spirits  flagged  and  disquieting  thoughts 

[79] 


SUMMER 

stole  back  on  her.  Young  Harney  had  grown  silent, 
and  as  he  lay  beside  her,  his  arms  under  his  head,  his 
eyes  on  the  network  of  leaves  above  him,  she  won 
dered  if  he  were  musing  on  what  Mr.  Royall  had 
told  him,  and  if  it  had  really  debased  her  in  his 
thoughts.  She  wished  he  had  not  asked  her  to  take 
him  that  day  to  the  brown  house ;  she  did  not  want 
him  to  see  the  people  she  came  from  while  the 
story  of  her  birth  was  fresh  in  his  mind.  More 
than  once  she  had  been  on  the  point  of  suggesting 
that  they  should  follow  the  ridge  and  drive  straight 
to  Hamblin,  where  there  was  a  little  deserted  house 
he  wanted  to  see;  but  shyness  and  pride  held  her 
back.  "He'd  better  know  what  kind  of  folks  I 
belong  to,"  she  said  to  herself,  with  a  somewhat 
forced  defiance;  for  in  reality  it  was  shame  that 
kept  her  silent. 

Suddenly  she  lifted  her  hand  and  pointed  to  the 
sky.  "There's  a  storm  coming  up." 

He  followed  her  glance  and  smiled.  "Is  it  that 
scrap  of  cloud  among  the  pines  that  frightens 
you?" 

"It's  over  the  Mountain;  and  a  cloud  over  the 
Mountain  always  means  trouble." 

"Oh,  I  don't  believe  half  the  bad  things  you  all 
[80] 


SUMMER 

say  of  the  Mountain !    But  anyhow,  we'll  get  down 
to  the  brown  house  before  the  rain  comes." 

He  was  not  far  wrong,  for  only  a  few  isolated 
drops  had  fallen  when  they  turned  into  the  road 
under  the  shaggy  flank  of  Porcupine,  and  came 
upon  the  brown  house.  It  stood  alone  beside  a 
swamp  bordered  with  alder  thickets  and  tall  bul 
rushes.  Not  another  dwelling  was  in  sight,  and  it 
was  hard  to  guess  what  motive  could  have  actuated 
the  early  settler  who  had  made  his  home  in  so  un 
friendly  a  spot. 

Charity  had  picked  up  enough  of  her  companion's 
erudition  to  understand  what  had  attracted  him  to 
the  house.  She  noticed  the  fan-shaped  tracery  of 
the  broken  light  above  the  door,  the  flutings  of 
the  paintless  pilasters  at  the  corners,  and  the  round 
window  set  in  the  gable;  and  she  knew  that,  for 
reasons  that  still  escaped  her,  these  were  things 
to  be  admired  and  recorded.  Still,  they  had  seen 
other  houses  far  more  "typical"  (the  word  was 
Harney's) ;  and  as  he  threw  the  reins  on  the  horse's 
neck  he  said  with  a  slight  shiver  of  repugnance:  V 
"We  won't  stay  long." 

Against  the  restless  alders  turning  their  white  lin 
ing  to  the  storm  the  house  looked  singularly  deso- 
6  [81] 


SUMMER 

late.  The  paint  was  almost  gone  from  the  clap 
boards,  the  window-panes  were  broken  and  patched 
\vith  rags,  and  the  garden  was  a  poisonous  tangle 
of  nettles,  burdocks  and  tall  swamp-weeds  over 
which  big  blue-bottles  hummed. 

At  the  sound  of  wheels  a  child  with  a  tow-head 
and  pale  eyes  like  Lift  Hyatt's  peered  over  the  fence 
and  then  slipped  away  behind  an  out-house.  Har- 
ney  jumped  down  and  helped  Charity  out;  and  as 
he  did  so  the  rain  broke  on  them.  It  came  slant 
wise,  on  a  furious  gale,  laying  shrubs  and  young 
trees  flat,  tearing  off  their  leaves  like  an  autumn 
storm,  turning  the  road  into  a  river,  and  making 
hissing  pools  of  every  hollow.  Thunder  rolled  in 
cessantly  through  the  roar  of  the  rain,  and  a  strange 
glitter  of  light  ran  along  the  ground  under  the 
increasing  blackness. 

"Lucky  we're  here  after  all,"  Harney  laughed. 
He  fastened  the  horse  under  a  half-roofless  shed, 
and  wrapping  Charity  in  his  coat  ran  with  her  to 
the  house.  The  boy  had  not  reappeared,  and  as 
there  was  no  response  to  their  knocks  Harney  turned 
the  door-handle  and  they  went  in. 

There  were  three  people  in  the  kitchen  to  which 
the  door  admitted  them.  An  old  woman  with  a 

[82] 


SUMMER 

handkerchief  over  her  head  was  sitting  by  the  win 
dow.  She  held  a  sickly-looking  kitten  on  her  knees, 
and  whenever  it  jumped  down  and  tried  to  limp 
away  she  stooped  and  lifted  it  back  without  any 
change  of  her  aged,  unnoticing  face.  Another 
woman,  the  unkempt  creature  that  Charity  had  once 
noticed  in  driving  by,  stood  leaning  against  the  win 
dow-frame  and  stared  at  them;  and  near  the  stove 
an  unshaved  man  in  a  tattered  shirt  sat  on  a  barrel 
asleep. 

The  place  was  bare  and  miserable  and  the  air 
heavy  with  the  smell  of  dirt  and  stale  tobacco. 
Charity's  heart  sank.  Old  derided  tales  of  the 
Mountain  people  came  back  to  her,  and  the  woman's 
stare  was  so  disconcerting,  and  the  face  of  the  sleep 
ing  man  so  sodden  and  bestial,  that  her  disgust  was 
tinged  with  a  vague  dread.  She  was  not  afraid 
for  herself ;  she  knew  the  Hyatts  would  not  be  likely 
to  trouble  her ;  but  she  was  not  sure  how  they  would 
treat  a  "city  fellow." 

Lucius  Harney  would  certainly  have  laughed  at 
her  fears.  He  glanced  about  the  room,  uttered  a 
general  "How  are  you?"  to  which  no  one  responded, 
and  then  asked  the  younger  woman  if  they  might 
take  shelter  till  the  storm  was  over. 

[83] 


SUMMER 

She  turned  her  eyes  away  from  him  and  looked 
at  Charity. 

"You're  the  girl  from  Royall's,  ain't  you?" 

The  colour  rose  in  Charity's  face.  "I'm  Charity 
Royall,"  she  said,  as  if  asserting  her  right  to  the 
name  in  the  very  place  where  it  might  have  been 
most  open  to  question. 

The  woman  did  not  seem  to  notice.  "You  kin 
stay,"  she  merely  said;  then  she  turned  away  and 
stooped  over  a  dish  in  which  she  was  stirring  some 
thing. 

Harney  and  Charity  sat  down  on  a  bench  made 
of  a  board  resting  on  two  starch  boxes.  They  faced 
a  door  hanging  on  a  broken  hinge,  and  through 
the  crack  they  saw  the  eyes  of  the  tow-headed  boy 
and  of  a  pale  little  girl  with  a  scar  across  her 
cheek.  Charity  smiled,  and  signed  to  the  children 
to  come  in;  but  as  soon  as  they  saw  they  were  dis 
covered  they  slipped  away  on  bare  feet.  It  occurred 
to  her  that  they  were  afraid  of  rousing  the  sleeping 
man;  and  probably  the  woman  shared  their  fear, 
for  she  moved  about  as  noiselessly  and  avoided  go 
ing  near  the  stove. 

The  rain  continued  to  beat  against  the  house,  and 
in  one  or  two  places  it  sent  a  stream  through  the 

[84] 


SUMMER 

patched  panes  and  ran  into  pools  on  the  floor. 
Every  now  and  then  the  kitten  mewed  and  struggled 
down,  and  the  old  woman  stooped  and  caught  it, 
holding  it  tight  in  her  bony  hands ;  and  once  or  twice 
the  man  on  the  barrel  half  woke,  changed  his  posi 
tion  and  dozed  again,  his  head  falling  forward  on 
his  hairy  breast.  As  the  minutes  passed,  and  the 
rain  still  streamed  against  the  windows,  a  loathing 
of  the  place  and  the  people  came  over  Charity.  The 
sight  of  the  weak-minded  old  woman,  of  the  cowed 
children,  and  the  ragged  man  sleeping  off  his  liquor, 
made  the  setting  of  her  own  life  seem  a  vision  of 
peace  and  plenty.  She  thought  of  the  kitchen  at 
Mr.  Royall's,  with  its  scrubbed  floor  and  dresser 
full  of  china,  and  the  peculiar  smell  of  yeast  and 
coffee  and  soft-soap  that  she  had  always  hated,  but 
that  now  seemed  the  very  symbol  of  household  or 
der.  She  saw  Mr.  Royall's  room,  with  the  high- 
backed  horsehair  chair,  the  faded  rag  carpet,  the 
row  of  books  on  a  shelf,  the  engraving  of  'The 
Surrender  of  Burgoyne"  over  the  stove,  and  the 
mat  with  a  brown  and  white  spaniel  on  a  moss- 
green  border.  And  then  her  mind  travelled  to 
Miss  Hatchard's  house,  where  all  was  freshness, 
purity  and  fragrance,  and  compared  to  which  the 

[85] 


SUMMER 

red  house  had  always  seemed  so  poor  and  plain. 

"This  is  where  I  belong — this  is  where  I  belong," 
she  kept  repeating  to  herself;  but  the  words  had 
no  meaning  for  her.  Every  instinct  and  habit  made 
her  a  stranger  among  these  poor  swamp-people  liv 
ing  like  vermin  in  their  lair.  With  all  her  soul 
she  wished  she  had  not  yielded  to  Harney's  curi 
osity,  and  brought  him  there. 

The  rain  had  drenched  her,  and  she  began  to 
shiver  under  the  thin  folds  of  her  dress.  The 
younger  woman  must  have  noticed  it,  for  she  went 
out  of  the  room  and  came  back  with  a  broken  tea 
cup  which  she  offered  to  Charity.  It  was  half  full 
of  whiskey,  and  Charity  shook  her  head ;  but  Har- 
ney  took  the  cup  and  put  his  lips  to  it.  When  he 
had  set  it  down  Charity  saw  him  feel  in  his  pocket 
and  draw  out  a  dollar;  he  hesitated  a  moment,  and 
then  put  it  back,  and  she  guessed  that  he  did  not 
wish  her  to  see  him  offering  money  to  people  she 
had  spoken  of  as  being  her  kin. 

The  sleeping  man  stirred,  lifted  his  head  and 
opened  his  eyes.  They  rested  vacantly  for  a  mo 
ment  on  Charity  and  Harney,  and  then  closed  again, 
and  his  head  drooped;  but  a  look  of  anxiety  came 
into  the  woman's  face.  She  glanced  out  of  the 

[86] 


SUMMER 

window  and  then  came  up  to  Harney.  "I  guess 
you  better  go  along  now,"  she  said.  The  young 
man  understood  and  got  to  his  feet.  "Thank  you," 
he  said,  holding  out  his  hand.  She  seemed  not  to 
notice  the  gesture,  and  turned  away  as  they  opened 
the  door. 

The  rain  was  still  coming  down,  but  they  hardly 
noticed  it :  the  pure  air  was  like  balm  in  their  faces. 
The  clouds  were  rising  and  breaking,  and  between 
their  edges  the  light  streamed  down  from  remote 
blue  hollows.  Harney  untied  the  horse,  and  they 
drove  off  through  the  diminishing  rain,  which  was 
already  beaded  with  sunlight. 

For  a  while  Charity  was  silent,  and  her  com 
panion  did  not  speak.  She  looked  timidly  at  his 
profile:  it  was  graver  than  usual,  as  though  he  too 
were  oppressed  by  what  they  had  seen.  Then  she 
broke  out  abruptly:  "Those  people  back  there  are 
the  kind  of  folks  I  come  from.  They  may  be  my 
relations,  for  all  I  know."  She  did  not  want  him  to 
think  that  she  regretted  having  told  him  her  story. 

"Poor  creatures,"  he  rejoined.  "I  wonder  why 
they  came  down  to  that  fever-hole." 

She  laughed  ironically.  "To  better  themselves! 
It's  worse  up  on  the  Mountain.  Bash  Hyatt  mar- 

[87] 


SUMMER 

ried  the  daughter  of  the  farmer  that  used  to  own 
the  brown  house.  That  was  him  by  the  stove,  I 
suppose." 

Harney  seemed  to  find  nothing  to  say  and  she 
went  on:  "I  saw  you  take  out  a  dollar  to  give 
to  that  poor  woman.  Why  did  you  put  it  back?" 

He  reddened,  and  leaned  forward  to  flick  a 
swamp-fly  from  the  horse's  neck.  "I  wasn't 
sure " 

"Was  it  because  you  knew  they  were  my  folks, 
and  thought  I'd  be  ashamed  to  see  you  give  them 
money  ?" 

He  turned  to  her  with  eyes  full  of  reproach. 

"Oh,  Charity "     It  was  the  first  time  he  had 

ever  called  her  by  her  name.  Her  misery  welled 
over. 

"I  ain't — I  ain't  ashamed.  They're  my  people, 
and  I  ain't  ashamed  of  them,"  she  sobbed. 

"My  dear  .  .  ."  he  murmured,  putting  his  arm 
about  her ;  and  she  leaned  against  him  and  wept  out 
her  pain. 

It  was  too  late  to  go  around  to  Hamblin,  and 
all  the  stars  were  out  in  a  clear  sky  when  they 
reached  the  North  Dormer  valley  and  drove  up  to 
the  red  house. 

[88] 


VII 


SINCE  her  reinstatement  in  Miss  Hatchard's 
favour  Charity  had  not  dared  to  curtail  by 
a  moment  her  hours  of  attendance  at  the  library. 
She  even  made  a  point  of  arriving  before  the 
time,  and  showed  a  laudable  indignation  when  the 
youngest  Targatt  girl,  who  had  been  engaged  to 
help  in  the  cleaning  and  rearranging  of  the  books, 
came  trailing  in  late  and  neglected  her  task  to  peer 
through  the  window  at  the  Sollas  boy.  Neverthe 
less,  "library  days"  seemed  more  than  ever  irksome 
to  Charity  after  her  vivid  hours  of  liberty;  and  she 
would  have  found  it  hard  to  set  a  good  example 
to  her  subordinate  if  Lucius  Harney  had  not  been 
commissioned,  before  Miss  Hatchard's  departure, 
to  examine  with  the  local  carpenter  the  best  means 
of  ventilating  the  "Memorial." 

He  was  careful  to  prosecute  this  inquiry  on  the 
days  when  the  library  was  open  to  the  public;  and 
Charity  was  therefore  sure  of  spending  part  of  the 
afternoon  in  his  company.  The  Targatt  girl's  pres- 

[89] 


SUMMER 

ence,  and  the  risk  of  being  interrupted  by  some 
passer-by  suddenly  smitten  with  a  thirst  for  letters, 
restricted  their  intercourse  to  the  exchange  of  com 
monplaces;  but  there  was  a  fascination  to  Charity 
in  the  contrast  between  these  public  civilities  and 
their  secret  intimacy. 

The  day  after  their  drive  to  the  brown  house 
was  "library  day,"  and  she  sat  at  her  desk  work 
ing  at  the  revised  catalogue,  while  the  Targatt  girl, 
one  eye  on  the  window,  chanted  out  the  titles  of 
a  pile  of  books.  Charity's  thoughts  were  far  away, 
in  the  dismal  house  by  the  swamp,  and  under  the 
twilight  sky  during  the  long  drive  home,  when 
Lucius  Harney  had  consoled  her  with  endearing 
words.  That  day,  for  the  first  time  since  he  had 
been  boarding  with  them,  he  had  failed  to  appear 
as  usual  at  the  midday  meal.  No  message  had  come 
to  explain  his  absence,  and  Mr.  Royall,  who  was 
more  than  usually  taciturn,  had  betrayed  no  sur 
prise,  and  made  no  comment.  In  itself  this  in 
difference  was  not  particularly  significant,  for  Mr. 
Royall,  in  common  with  most  of  his  fellow-citizens, 
had  a  way  of  accepting  events  passively,  as  if  he 
had  long  since  come  to  the  conclusion  that  no  one 
who  lived  in  North  Dormer  could  hope  to  modify 

[90] 


SUMMER 

them.  But  to  Charity,  in  the  reaction  from  her 
mood  of  passionate  exaltation,  there  was  something 
disquieting  in  his  silence.  It  was  almost  as  if 
Lucius  Harney  had  never  had  a  part  in  their  lives : 
Mr.  Royall's  imperturbable  indifference  seemed  to 
relegate  him  to  the  domain  of  unreality. 

As  she  sat  at  work,  she  tried  to  shake  off  her 
disappointment  at  Harney's  non-appearing.  Some 
trifling  incident  had  probably  kept  him  from  join 
ing  them  at  midday;  but  she  was  sure  he  must  be 
eager  to  see  her  again,  and  that  he  would  not  want 
to  wait  till  they  met  at  supper,  between  Mr.  Roy  all 
and  Verena.  She  was  wondering  what  his  first 
words  would  be,  and  trying  to  devise  a  way  of  get 
ting  rid  of  the  Targatt  girl  before  he  came,  when 
she  heard  steps  outside,  and  he  walked  up  the  path 
with  Mr.  Miles. 

The  clergyman  from  Hepburn  seldom  came  to 
North  Dormer  except  when  he  drove  over  to  of 
ficiate  at  the  old  white  church  which,  by  an  un 
usual  chance,  happened  to  belong  to  the  Episcopal 
communion.  He  was  a  brisk  affable  man,  eager 
to  make  the  most  of  the  fact  that  a  little  nucleus  of 
"church-people"  had  survived  in  the  sectarian  wil 
derness,  and  resolved  to  undermine  the  influence  of 

[91] 


SUMMER 

the  ginger-bread-coloured  Baptist  chapel  at  the  other 
end  of  the  village ;  but  he  was  kept  busy  by  parochial 
work  at  Hepburn,  where  there  were  paper-mills 
and  saloons,  and  it  was  not  often  that  he  could 
spare  time  for  North  Dormer. 

Charity,  who  went  to  the  white  church  (like  all 
the  best  people  in  North  Dormer),  admired  Mr. 
r  Miles,  and  had  even,  during  the  memorable  trip 
to  Nettleton,  imagined  herself  married  to  a  man 
who  had  such  a  straight  nose  and  such  a  beautiful 
way  of  speaking,  and  who  lived  in  a  brown-stone 
rectory  covered  with  Virginia  creeper.  It  had  been 
a  shock  to  discover  that  the  privilege  was  already 
enjoyed  by  a  lady  with  crimped  hair  and  a  large 
baby;  but  the  arrival  of  Lucius  Harney  had  long 
since  banished  Mr.  Miles  from  Charity's  dreams, 
and  as  he  walked  up  the  path  at  Harney's  side  she 
saw  him  as  he  really  was:  a  fat  middle-aged  man 
with  a  baldness  showing  under  his  clerical  hat, 
and  spectacles  on  his  Grecian  nose.  She  wondered 
what  had  called  him  to  North  Dormer  on  a  week 
day,  and  felt  a  little  hurt  that  Harney  should  have 
brought  him  to  the  library. 

It  presently  appeared  that  his  presence  there  was 
due  to  Miss  Hatchard.  He  had  been  spending  a 


SUMMER 

few  days  at  Springfield,  to  fill  a  friend's  pulpit, 
and  had  been  consulted  by  Miss  Hatchard  as  to 
young  Harney's  plan  for  ventilating  the  "Me 
morial."  To  lay  hands  on  the  Hatchard  ark  was 
a  grave  matter,  and  Miss  Hatchard,  always  full  of 
scruples  about  her  scruples  (it  was  Harney's 
phrase),  wished  to  have  Mr.  Miles's  opinion  before 
deciding. 

"I  couldn't/'  Mr.  Miles  explained,  "quite  make 
out  from  your  cousin  what  changes  you  wanted  to 
make,  and  as  the  other  trustees  did  not  understand 
either  I  thought  I  had  better  drive  over  and  take 
a  look — though  I'm  sure,"  he  added,  turning  his 
friendly  spectacles  on  the  young  man,  "that  no  one 
could  be  more  competent — but  of  course  this  spot 
has  its  peculiar  sanctity!" 

"I  hope  a  little  fresh  air  won't  desecrate  it,"  Har- 
ney  laughingly  rejoined;  and  they  walked  to  the 
other  end  of  the  library  while  he  set  forth  his  idea 
to  the  Rector. 

Mr.  Miles  had  greeted  the  two  girls  with  his  usual  i 
friendliness,  but  Charity  saw  that  he  was  occupied 
with  other  things,  and  she  presently  became  aware, 
by  the  scraps  of  conversation  drifting  over  to  her, 
that  he  was  still  under  the  charm  of  his  visit  to 

[93] 


SUMMER 

Springfield,  which  appeared  to  have  been  full  of 
agreeable  incidents. 

"Ah,  the  Coopersons  .  .  .  yes,  you  know  them, 
of  course/'  she  heard.  "That's  a  fine  old  house! 
And  Ned  Cooperson  has  collected  some  really  re 
markable  impressionist  pictures.  .  .  ."  The  names 
he  cited  were  unknown  to  Charity.  "Yes;  yes;  the 
Schaefer  quartette  played  at  Lyric  Hall  on  Satur 
day  evening;  and  on  Monday  I  had  the  privilege 
of  hearing  them  again  at  the  Towers.  Beautifully 
done  .  .  .  Bach  and  Beethoven  ...  a  lawn-party 
first  ...  I  saw  Miss  Balch  several  times,  by  the 
way  .  .  .  looking  extremely  handsome.  .  .  ." 

Charity  dropped  her  pencil  and  forgot  to  listen 
to  the  Targatt  girl's  sing-song.  Why  had  Mr. 
Miles  suddenly  brought  up  Annabel  Balch's  name? 

"Oh,  really?"  she  heard  Harney  rejoin;  and, 
raising  his  stick,  he  pursued :  "You  see,  my  plan  is 
to  move  these  shelves  away,  and  open  a  round  win 
dow  in  this  wall,  on  the  axis  of  the  one  under  the 
pediment." 

"I  suppose  she'll  be  coming  up  here  later  to  stay 
with  Miss  Hatchard?"  Mr.  Miles  went  on,  follow 
ing  on  his  train  of  thought;  then,  spinning  about 
and  tilting  his  head  back:  "Yes,  yes,  I  see — I  un- 

[94] 


SUMMER 

derstand :  that  will  give  a  draught  without  materi 
ally  altering  the  look  of  things.  I  can  see  no  ob 
jection." 

The  discussion  went  on  for  some  minutes,  and 
gradually  the  two  men  moved  back  toward  the 
desk.  Mr.  Miles  stopped  again  and  looked  thought 
fully  at  Charity.  "Aren't  you  a  little  pale,  my 
dear?  Not  overworking?  Mr.  Harney  tells  me 
you  and  Mamie  are  giving  the  library  a  thorough 
overhauling."  He  was  always  careful  to  remember 
his  parishioners'  Christian  names,  and  at  the  right 
moment  he  bent  his  benignant  spectacles  on  the 
Targatt  girl. 

Then  he  turned  to  Charity.  "Don't  take  things 
hard,  my  dear ;  don't  take  things  hard.  Come  down 
and  see  Mrs.  Miles  and  me  some  day  at  Hepburn," 
he  said,  pressing  her  hand  and  waving  a  farewell 
to  Mamie  Targatt.  He  went  out  of  the  library, 
and  Harney  followed  him. 

Charity  thought  she  detected  a  look  of  constraint 
in  Harney's  eyes.  She  fancied  he  did  not  want 
to  be  alone  with  her;  and  with  a  sudden  pang  she 
wondered  if  he  repented  the  tender  things  he  had 
said  to  her  the  night  before.  His  words  had  been 
more  fraternal  than  lover-like ;  but  she  had  lost  their 

[95] 


SUMMER 

exact  sense  in  the  caressing  warmth  of  his  voice. 
He  had  made  her  feel  that  the  fact  of  her  being 
a  waif  from  the  Mountain  was  only  another  reason 
for  holding  her  close  and  soothing  her  with  con 
solatory  murmurs;  and  when  the  drive  was  over, 
and  she  got  out  of  the  buggy,  tired,  cold,  and  ach 
ing  with  emotion,  she  stepped  as  if  the  ground  were 
a  sunlit  wave  and  she  the  spray  on  its  crest. 

Why,  then,  had  his  manner  suddenly  changed, 
and  why  did  he  leave  the  library  with  Mr.  Miles? 
Her  restless  imagination  fastened  on  the  name  of 
Annabel  Balch :  from  the  moment  it  had  been  men-  , 
tioned  she  fancied  that  Harney's  expression  had 
altered.  Annabel  Balch  at  a  garden-party  at  Spring 
field,  looking  "extremely  handsome"  .  .  .  perhaps 
Mr.  Miles  had  seen  her  there  at  the  very  moment 
when  Charity  and  Harney  were  sitting  in  the 
Hyatts'  hovel,  between  a  drunkard  and  a  half-witted 
old  woman !  Charity  did  not  know  exactly  what  a 
garden-party  was,  but  her  glimpse  of  the  flower- 
edged  lawns  of  Nettleton  helped  her  to  visualize 
the  scene,  and  envious  recollections  of  the  "old 
things"  which  Miss  Balch  avowedly  "wore  out" 
when  she  came  to  North  Dormer  made  it  only  too  ' 
easy  to  picture  her  in  her  splendour.  Charity  un- 

[96] 


SUMMER 

derstood  what  associations  the  name  must  have 
called  up,  and  felt  the  uselessness  of  struggling^ 
against  the  unseen  influences  in  Harney's  life. 

When  she  came  down  from  her  room  for  supper 
he  was  not  there ;  and  while  she  waited  in  the  porch 
she  recalled  the  tone  in  which  Mr.  Royall  had  com 
mented  the  day  before  on  their  early  start.  Mr. 
Royall  sat  at  her  side,  his  chair  tilted  back,  his 
broad  black  boots  with  side-elastics  resting  against 
the  lower  bar  of  the  railings.  His  rumpled  grey 
hair  stood  up  above  his  forehead  like  the  crest  of 
an  angry  bird,  and  the  leather-brown  of  his  veined 
cheeks  was  blotched  with  red.  Charity  knew  that 
those  red  spots  were  the  signs  of  a  coming  ex 
plosion. 

Suddenly  he  said:  "Where's  supper?  Has  Ve~ 
rena  Marsh  slipped  up  again  on  her  soda-biscuits  ?" 

Charity  threw  a  startled  glance  at  him.  "I  pre 
sume  she's  waiting  for  Mr.  Harney." 

"Mr.  Harney,  is  she  ?  She'd  better  dish  up,  then. 
He  ain't  coming."  He  stood  up,  walked  to  the 
door,  and  called  out,  in  the  pitch  necessary  to  pene 
trate  the  old  woman's  tympanum :  "Get  along  with 
the  supper,  Verena." 

Charity  was  trembling  with  apprehension.  Some- 
7  [97] 


SUMMER 

thing  had  happened — she  was  sure  of  it  now — and 
Mr.  Royall  knew  what  it  was.  But  not  for  the 
world  would  she  have  gratified  him  by  showing  her 
anxiety.  She  took  her  usual  place,  and  he  seated 
himself  opposite,  and  poured  out  a  strong  cup  of 
tea  before  passing  her  the  tea-pot.  Verena  brought 
some  scrambled  eggs,  and  he  piled  his  plate  with 
them.  "Ain't  you  going  to  take  any?"  he  asked. 
Charity  roused  herself  and  began  to  eat. 

The  tone  with  which  Mr.  Royall  had  said  "He's 
not  coming"  seemed  to  her  full  of  an  ominous  satis 
faction.  She  saw  that  he  had  suddenly  begun  to 
hate  Lucius  Harney,  and  guessed  herself  to  be  the 
cause  of  this  change  of  feeling.  But  she  had  no 
means  of  finding  out  whether  some  act  of  hostility 
on  his  part  had  made  the  young  man  stay  away, 
or  whether  he  simply  wished  to  avoid  seeing  her 
again  after  their  drive  back  from  the  brown  house. 
She  ate  her  supper  with  a  studied  show  of  indif 
ference,  but  she  knew  that  Mr.  Royall  was  watch 
ing  her  and  that  her  agitation  did  not  escape  him. 

After  supper  she  went  up  to  her  room.  She 
heard  Mr.  Royall  cross  the  passage,  and  presently 
the  sounds  below  her  window  showed  that  he  had 
returned  to  the  porch. .  She  seated  herself  on  her 

[98] 


SUMMER 

bed  and  began  to  struggle  against  the  desire  to  go 
down  and  ask  him  what  had  happened.  "I'd  rather 
die  than  do  it,"  she  muttered  to  herself.  With  a 
word  he  could  have  relieved  her  uncertainty:  but 
never  would  she  gratify  him  by  saying  it. 

She  rose  and  leaned  out  of  the  window.  The  twi 
light  had  deepened  into  night,  and  she  watched  the 
frail  curve  of  the  young  moon  dropping  to  the  edge 
of  the  hills.  Through  the  darkness  she  saw  one 
or  two  figures  moving  down  the  road ;  but  the  eve 
ning  was  too  cold  for  loitering,  and  presently  the 
strollers  disappeared.  Lamps  were  beginning  to 
show  here  and  there  in  the  windows.  A  bar  of 
light  brought  out  the  whiteness  of  a  clump  of  lilies 
in  the  Hawes's  yard :  and  farther  down  the  street 
Carrick  Fry's  Rochester  lamp  cast  its  bold  illumi 
nation  on  the  rustic  flower-tub  in  the  middle  of  his 
grass-plot. 

For  a  long  time  she  continued  to  lean  in  the 
window.  But  a  fever  of  unrest  consumed  her,  and 
finally  she  went  downstairs,  took  her  hat  from  its 
hook,  and  swung  out  of  the  house.  Mr.  Royall  sat 
in  the  porch,  Verena  beside  him,  her  old  hands 
crossed  on  her  patched  skirt.  As  Charity  went 
down  the  steps  Mr.  Royall  called  after  her :  "Where 

[99] 


SUMMER 

you  going  ?"  She  could  easily  have  answered :  "To 
Orma's,"  or  "Down  to  the  Targatts'  " ;  and  either 
answer  might  have  been  true,  for  she  had  no  pur 
pose.  But  she  swept  on  in  silence,  determined  not 
to  recognize  his  right  to  question  her. 

At  the  gate  she  paused  and  looked  up  and  down 
the  road.  The  darkness  drew  her,  and  she  thought 
of  climbing  the  hill  and  plunging  into  the  depths  of 
the  larch-wood  above  the  pasture.  Then  she  glanced 
irresolutely  along  the  street,  and  as  she  did  so  a 
gleam  appeared  through  the  spruces  at  Miss  Hatch 
ard's  gate.  Lucius  Harney  was  there,  then — he 
had  not  gone  down  to  Hepburn  with  Mr.  Miles, 
as  she  had  at  first  imagined.  But  where  had  he 
taken  his  evening  meal,  and  what  had  caused  him 
to  stay  away  from  Mr.  Royall's?  The  light  was 
positive  proof  of  his  presence,  for  Miss  Hatchard's 
servants  were  away  on  a  holiday,  and  her  farmer's 
wife  came  only  in  the  mornings,  to  make  the  young 
man's  bed  and  prepare  his  coffee.  Beside  that  lamp 
he  was  doubtless  sitting  at  this  moment.  To  know 
the  truth  Charity  had  only  to  walk  half  the  length 
of  the  village,  and  knock  at  the  lighted  window.  She 
hesitated  a  minute  or  two  longer,  and  then  turned 
toward  Miss  Hatchard's. 

[100] 


SUMMER 

She  walked  quickly,  straining  her  eyes  to  detect 
anyone  who  might  be  coming  along  the  street ;  and 
before  reaching  the  Frys'  she  crossed  over  to  avoid 
the  light  from  their  window.  Whenever  she  was 
unhappy  she  felt  herself  at  bay  against  a  pitiless 
world,  and  a  kind  of  animal  secretiveness  possessed 
her.  But  the  street  was  empty,  and  she  passed  un 
noticed  through  the  gate  and  up  the  path  to  the 
house.  Its  white  front  glimmered  indistinctly 
through  the  trees,  showing  only  one  oblong  of  light 
on  the  lower  floor.  She  had  supposed  that  the 
lamp  was  in  Miss  Hatchard's  sitting-room;  but  she 
now  saw  that  it  shone  through  a  window  at  the 
farther  corner  of  the  house.  She  did  not  know  the 
room  to  which  this  window  belonged,  and  she 
paused  under  the  trees,  checked  by  a  sense  of 
strangeness.  Then  she  moved  on,  treading  softly 
on  the  short  grass,  and  keeping  so  close  to  the  house 
that  whoever  was  in  the  room,  even  if  roused  by 
her  approach,  would  not  be  able  to  see  her. 

The  window  opened  on  a  narrow  verandah  with 
a  trellised  arch.  She  leaned  close  to  the  trellis,  and 
parting  the  sprays  of  clemaas  that  covered  it  looked 
into  a  corner  of  the  room.  She  saw  the  foot  of 
a  mahogany  bed,  an  engraving  on  the  wall,  a  wash- 
[101] 


SUMMER 

stand  on  which  a  towel  had  been  tossed,  and  one 
end  of  the  green-covered  table  which  held  the  lamp. 
Half  of  the  lamp-shade  projected  into  her  field  of 
vision,  and  just  under  it  two  smooth  sunburnt 
hands,  one  holding  a  pencil  and  the  other  a  ruler, 
were  moving  to  and  fro  over  a  drawing-board. 

Her  heart  jumped  and  then  stood  still.  He  was 
there,  a  few  feet  away;  and  while  her  soul  was 
tossing  on  seas  of  woe  he  had  been  quietly  sitting 
at  his  drawing-board.  The  sight  of  those  two 
hands,  moving  with  their  usual  skill  and  precision, 
woke  her  out  of  her  dream.  Her  eyes  were  opened 
to  the  disproportion  between  what  she  had  felt  and 
the  cause  of  her  agitation;  and  she  was  turning 
away  from  the  window  when  one  hand  abruptly 
pushed  aside  the  drawing-board  and  the  other  flung 
down  the  pencil. 

Chanty  had  often  noticed  Harney's  loving  care 
of  his  drawings,  and  the  neatness  and  method  with 
which  he  carried  on  and  concluded  each  task.  The 
impatient  sweeping  aside  of  the  drawing-board 
seemed  to  reveal  a  new  mood.  The  gesture  sug 
gested  sudden  discouragement,  or  distaste  for  his 
work  and  she  wondered  if  he  too  were  agitated  by 
secret  perplexities.  Her  impulse  of  flight  was 
[102] 


SUMMER 

checked ;  she  stepped  up  on  the  verandah  and  looked 
into  the  room. 

Harney  had  put  his  elbows  on  the  table  and  was 
resting  his  chin  on  his  locked  hands.  He  had  taken 
off  his  coat  and  waistcoat,  and  unbuttoned  the  low 
collar  of  his  flannel  shirt;  she  saw  the  vigorous 
lines  of  his  young  throat,  and  the  root  of  the  mus 
cles  where  they  joined  the  chest.  He  sat  staring 
straight  ahead  of  him,  a  look  of  weariness  and  self- 
disgust  on  his  face :  it  was  almost  as  if  he  had  been 
gazing  at  a  distorted  reflection  of  his  own  features. 
For  a  moment  Charity  looked  at  him  with  a  kind 
of  terror,  as  if  he  had  been  a  stranger  under  fa 
miliar  lineaments;  then  she  glanced  past  him  and 
saw  on  the  floor  an  open  portmanteau  half  full  of 
clothes.  She  understood  that  he  was  preparing  to 
leave,  and  that  he  had  probably  decided  to  go  with 
out  seeing  her.  She  saw  that  the  decision,  from 
whatever  cause  it  was  taken,  had  disturbed  him 
deeply;  and  she  immediately  concluded  that  his 
change  of  plan  was  due  to  some  surreptitious  in 
terference  of  Mr.  Royall's.  All  her  old  resentments 
and  rebellions  flamed  up,  confusedly  mingled  with 
the  yearning  roused  by  Harney's  nearness.  Only 
a  few  hours  earlier  she  had  felt  secure  in  his  com- 
[103] 


SUMMER 

prehending  pity;  now  she  was  flung  back  on  her 
self,  doubly  alone  after  that  moment  of  communion. 
Harney  was  still  unaware  of  her  presence.  He 
sat  without  moving,  moodily  staring  before  him  at 
the  same  spot  in  the  wall-paper.  He  had  not  even 
had  the  energy  to  finish  his  packing,  and  his  clothes 
and  papers  lay  on  the  floor  about  the  portmanteau. 
Presently  he  unlocked  his  clasped  hands  and  stood 
up;  and  Charity,  drawing  back  hastily,  sank  down 
on  the  step  of  the  verandah.  The  night  was  so 
dark  that  there  was  not  much  chance  of  his  seeing 
her  unless  he  opened  the  window  and  before  that 
she  would  have  time  to  slip  away  and  be  lost  in 
the  shadow  of  the  trees.  He  stood  for  a  minute 
or  two  looking  around  the  room  with  the  same  ex 
pression  of  self-disgust,  as  if  he  hated  himself  and 
everything  about  him;  then  he  sat  down  again  at 
the  table,  drew  a  few  more  strokes,  and  threw  his 
pencil  aside.  Finally  he  walked  across  the  floor, 
kicking  the  portmanteau  out  of  his  way,  and  lay 
down  on  the  bed,  folding  his  arms  under  his  head, 
and  staring  up  morosely  at  the  ceiling.  Just  so, 
Charity  had  seen  him  at  her  side  on  the  grass  or 
the  pine-needles,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  sky,  and  pleas 
ure  flashing  over  his  face  like  the  flickers  of  sun 
[104] 


SUMMER 

the  branches  shed  on  it.  But  now  the  face  was  so 
changed  that  she  hardly  knew  it;  and  grief  at  his 
grief  gathered  in  her  throat,  rose  to  her  eyes  and 
ran  over. 

She  continued  to  crouch  on  the  steps,  holding  her 
breath  and  stiffening  herself  into  complete  immo 
bility.  One  motion  of  her  hand,  one  tap  on  the 
pane,  and  she  could  picture  the  sudden  change  in 
his  face.  In  every  pulse  of  her  rigid  body  she  was 
aware  of  the  welcome  his  eyes  and  lips  would  give 
her ;  but  something  kept  her  from  moving.  It  was 
not  the  fear  of  any  sanction,  human  or  heavenly; 
she  had  never  in  her  life  been  afraid.  It  was 
simply  that  she  had  suddenly  understood  what 
would  happen  if  she  went  in.  It  was  the  thing 
that  did  happen  between  young  men  and  girls,  and 
that  North  Dormer  ignored  in  public  and  snickered 
over  on  the  sly.  It  was  what  Miss  Hatchard  was 
still  ignorant  of,  but  every  girl  of  Charity's  class 
knew  about  before  she  left  school.  It  was  what 
had  happened  to  Ally  Hawes's  sister  Julia,  and  had 
ended  in  her  going  to  Nettleton,  and  in  people's 
never  mentioning  her  name. 

It  did  not,  of  course,  always  end  so  sensationally; 
nor,  perhaps,  on  the  whole,  so  untragically.  Charity 

[105] 


SUMMER 

had  always  suspected  that  the  shunned  Julia's  fate 
might  have  its  compensations.  There  were  others, 
worse  endings  that  the  village  knew  of,  mean,  mis 
erable,  unconfessed ;  other  lives  that  went  on  drear 
ily,  without  visible  change,  in  the  same  cramped  set 
ting  of  hypocrisy.  But  these  were  not  the  reasons 
that  held  her  back.  Since  the  day  before,  she  had 
known  exactly  what  she  would  feel  if  Harney 
should  take  her  in  his  arms :  the  melting  of  palm 
into  palm  and  mouth  on  mouth,  and  the  long  flame 
burning  her  from  head  to  foot.  But  mixed  with 
this  feeling  was  another :  the  wondering  pride  in  his 
liking  for  her,  the  startled  softness  that  his  sym 
pathy  had  put  into  her  heart.  Sometimes,  when 
her  youth  flushed  up  in  her,  she  had  imagined  yield 
ing  like  other  girls  to  furtive  caresses  in  the  twi 
light;  but  she  could  not  so  cheapen  herself  to  Har 
ney.  She  did  not  know  why  he  was  going;  but 
since  he  was  going  she  felt  she  must  do  nothing  to 
deface  the  image  of  her  that  he  carried  away.  If 
he  wanted  her  he  must  seek  her :  he  must  not  be 
surprised  into  taking  her  as  girls  like  Julia  Hawes 
were  taken.  .  .  . 

No  sound  came   from  the  sleeping  village,  and 
in  the  deep  darkness  of  the  garden  she  heard  now 
[106] 


SUMMER 

and  then  a  secret  rustle  of  branches,  as  though  some 
night-bird  brushed  them.  Once  a  footfall  passed  the 
gate,  and  she  shrank  back  into  her  corner;  but  the 
steps  died  away  and  left  a  profounder  quiet.  Her 
eyes  were  still  on  Harney's  tormented  face :  she  felt 
she  could  not  move  till  he  moved.  But  she  was  be 
ginning  to  grow  numb  from  her  constrained  posi 
tion,  and  at  times  her  thoughts  were  so  indistinct 
that  she  seemed  to  be  held  there  only  by  a  vague 
weight  of  weariness. 

A  long  time  passed  in  this  strange  vigil.  Harney 
still  lay  on  the  bed,  motionless  and  with  fixed  eyes, 
as  though  following  his  vision  to  its  bitter  end.  At 
last  he  stirred  and  changed  his  attitude  slightly,  and 
Charity's  heart  began  to  tremble.  But  he  only  flung 
out  his  arms  and  sank  back  into  his  former  posi 
tion.  With  a  deep  sigh  he  tossed  the  hair  from 
his  forehead;  then  his  whole  body  relaxed,  his  head 
turned  sideways  on  the  pillow,  and  she  saw  that 
he  had  fallen  asleep.  The  sweet  expression  came 
back  to  his  lips,  and  the  haggardness  faded  from 
his  face,  leaving  it  as  fresh  as  a  boy's. 

She  rose  and  crept  away. 


VIII 

SHE  had  lost  the  sense  of  time,  and  did  not 
know  how  late  it  was  till  she  came  out  into 
the  street  and  saw  that  all  the  windows  were  dark 
between  Miss  Hatchard's  and  the  Royall  house. 

As  she  passed  from  under  the  black  pall  of  the 
Norway  spruces  she  fancied  she  saw  two  figures  in 
the  shade  about  the  duck-pond.  She  drew  back  and 
watched;  but  nothing  moved,  and  she  had  stared 
so  long  into  the  lamp-lit  room  that  the  darkness 
confused  her,  and  she  thought  she  must  have  been 
mistaken. 

She  walked  on,  wondering  whether  Mr.  Royall 
was  still  in  the  porch.  In  her  exalted  mood  she 
did  not  greatly  care  whether  he  was  waiting  for 
her  or  not :  she  seemed  to  be  floating  high  over  life, 
on  a  great  cloud  of  misery  beneath  which  every 
day  realities  had. dwindled  to  mere  specks  in  space. 
But  the  porch  was  empty,  Mr.  Royall's  hat  hung 
on  its  peg  in  the  passage,  and  the  kitchen  lamp  had 
been  left  to  light  her  to  bed.  She  took  it  and 
went  up. 

[108] 


SUMMER 

The  morning  hours  of  the  next  day  dragged  by 
without  incident.  Charity  had  imagined  that,  in 
some  way  or  other,  she  would  learn  whether 
Harney  had  already  left;  but  Verena's  deafness 
prevented  her  being  a  source  of  news,  and  no 
one  came  to  the  house  who  could  bring  enlighten 
ment. 

Mr.  Royall  went  out  early,  and  did  not  return  till 
Verena  had  set  the  table  for  the  midday  meal. 
When  he  came  in  he  went  straight  to  the  kitchen 
and  shouted  to  the  old  woman :  "Ready  for  din 
ner "  then  he  turned  into  the  dining-room, 

where  Charity  was  already  seated.  Harney's  plate 
was  in  its  usual  place,  but  Mr.  Royall  offered  no 
explanation  of  his  absence,  and  Charity  asked  none. 
The  feverish  exaltation  of  the  night  before  had 
dropped,  and  she  said  to  herself  that  he  had  gone 
away,  indifferently,  almost  callously,  and  that  now 
her  life  would  lapse  again  into  the  narrow  rut  out 
of  which  he  had  lifted  it.  For  a  moment  she  was 
inclined  to  sneer  at  herself  for  not  having  used 
the  arts  that  might  have  kept  him. 

She  sat  at  table  till  the  meal  was  over,  lest  Mr. 
Royall  should  remark  on  her  leaving;  but  when  he 
stood  up  she  rose  also,  without  waiting  to  help 
[109] 


SUMMER 

Verena.  She  had  her  foot  on  the  stairs  when  he 
called  to  her  to  come  back. 

"I've  got  a  headache.  I'm  going  up  to  lie 
down." 

"I  want  you  should  come  in  here  first;  I've  got 
something  to  say  to  you." 

She  was  sure  from  his  tone  that  in  a  moment 
she  would  learn  what  every  nerve  in  her  ached  to 
know;  but  as  she  turned  back  she  made  a  last  ef 
fort  of  indifference. 

Mr.  Roy  all  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  office,  his 
thick  eyebrows  beetling,  his  lower  jaw  trembling  a 
little.  At  first  she  thought  he  had  been  drinking; 
then  she  saw  that  he  was  sober,  but  stirred  by  a 
deep  and  stern  emotion  totally  unlike  his  usual 
transient  angers.  And  suddenly  she  understood 
that,  until  then,  she  had  never  really  noticed  him 
or  thought  about  him.  Except  on  the  occasion  of 
his  one  offense  he  had  been  to  her  merely  the  per 
son  who  is  always  there,  the  unquestioned  central 
fact  of  life,  as  inevitable  but  as  uninteresting  as 
North  Dormer  itself,  or  any  of  the  other  conditions 
fate  had  laid  on  her.  Even  then  she  had  regarded 
him  only  in  relation  to  herself,  and  had  never  spec 
ulated  as  to  his  own  feelings,  beyond  instinctively 
[no] 


SUMMER 

concluding  that  he  would  not  trouble  her  again  in 
the  same  way.  But  now  she  began  to  wonder  what 
he  was  really  like. 

He  had  grasped  the  back  of  his  chair  with  both 
hands,  and  stood  looking  hard  at  her.  At  length 
he  said :  "Charity,  for  once  let's  you  and  me  talk 
together  like  friends." 

Instantly  she  felt  that  something  had  happened, 
and  that  he  held  her  in  his  hand. 

"Where  is  Mr.  Harney?  Why  hasn't  he  come 
back?  Have  you  sent  him  away?"  she  broke  out, 
without  knowing  what  she  was  saying. 

The  change  in  Mr.  Royall  frightened  her.  All 
the  blood  seemed  to  leave  his  veins  and  against 
his  swarthy  pallor  the  deep  lines  in  his  face  looked 
black. 

"Didn't  he  have  time  to  answer  some  of  those 
questions  last  night?  You  was  with  him  long 
enough!"  he  said. 

Charity  stood  speechless.  The  taunt  \vas  so  un 
related  to  what  had  been  happening  in  her  soul 
that  she  hardly  understood  it.  But  the  instinct  of 
self-defense  awoke  in  her. 

"Who  says  I  was  with  him  last  night?" 

"The  whole  place  is  saying  it  by  now." 
[in] 


SUMMER 

'Then  it  was  you  that  put  the  lie  into  their 
mouths. — Oh,  how  I've  always  hated  you!"  she 
cried. 

She  had  expected  a  retort  in  kind,  and  it  startled 
her  to  hear  her  exclamation  sounding  on  through 
silence. 

"Yes,  I  know/'  Mr.  Royall  said  slowly.  "But 
that  ain't  going  to  help  us  much  now." 

"It  helps  me  not  to  care  a  straw  what  lies  you 
tell  about  me !" 

"If  they're  lies,  they're  not  my  lies:  my  Bible 
oath  on  that,  Charity.  I  didn't  know  where  you 
were :  I  wasn't  out  of  this  house  last  night." 

She  made  no  answer  and  he  went  on:  "Is  it  a 
lie  that  you  were  seen  coming  out  of  Miss  Hatch- 
ard's  nigh  onto  midnight?" 

She  straightened  herself  with  a  laugh,  all  her 
reckless  insolence  recovered.  "I  didn't  look  to  see 
what  time  it  was." 

"You  lost  girl  .  .  .  you  .  .  .  you  .  .  .  Oh,  my 
God,  why  did  you  tell  me?"  he  broke  out,  dropping 
into  his  chair,  his  head  bowed  down  like  an  old 
man's. 

Charity's  self-possession  had  returned  with  the 
sense  of  her  danger.  "Do  you  suppose  I'd  take  the 

[112] 


SUMMER 

trouble  to  lie  to  you?  Who  are  you,  anyhow,  to 
ask  me  where  I  go  to  when  I  go  out  at  night?" 

Mr.  Royall  lifted  his  head  and  looked  at  her. 
His  face  had  grown  quiet  and  almost  gentle,  as  she 
remembered  seeing  it  sometimes  when  she  was  a 
little  girl,  before  Mrs.  Royall  died. 

"Don't  let's  go  on  like  this,  Charity.  It  can't  do 
any  good  to  either  of  us.  You  were  seen  going  into 
that  fellow's  house  .  .  .  you  were  seen  coming  out 
of  it.  .  .  .  I've  watched  this  thing  coming,  and  I've 
tried  to  stop  it.  As  God  sees  me,  I  have.  .  .  ." 

"Ah,  it  was  you,  then?  I  knew  it  was  you  that 
sent  him  away !" 

He  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  "Didn't  he  tell  you 
so?  I  thought  he  understood."  He  spoke  slowly, 
with  difficult  pauses,  "I  didn't  name  you  to  him : 
I'd  have  cut  my  hand  off  sooner.  I  just  told  him 
I  couldn't  spare  the  horse  any  longer;  and  that  the 
cooking  was  getting  too  heavy  for  Verena.  I  guess 
he's  the  kind  that's  heard  the  same  thing  before. 
Anyhow,  he  took  it  quietly  enough.  He  said  his 
job  here  was  about  done,  anyhow;  and  there  didn't 
another  word  pass  between  us.  .  .  .  If  he  told  you 
otherwise  he  told  you  an  untruth." 

Charity  listened  in  a  cold  trance  of  anger.  It 
8  [113] 


SUMMER 

was  nothing  to  her  what  the  village  said  .  .  .  but 
.ill  this  fingering  of  her  dreams! 

"I've  told  you  he  didn't  tell  me  anything.  I  didn't 
speak  with  him  last  night." 

"You  didn't  speak  with  him?" 

"No.  .  .  .  It's  not  that  I  care  what  any  of  you 
say  .  .  .  but  you  may  as  well  know.  Things  ain't 
between  us  the  way  you  think  .  .  .  and  the  other 
people  in  this  place.  He  was  kind  to  me;  he  was 
my  friend ;  and  all  of  a  sudden  he  stopped  coming, 
and  I  knew  it  was  you  that  done  it — you!"  All  her 
unreconciled  memory  of  the  past  flamed  out  at  him. 
"So  I  went  there  last  night  to  find  out  what  you'd 
said  to  him:  that's  all." 

Mr.  Royall  drew  a  heavy  breath.  "But,  then — 
if  he  wasn't  there,  what  were  you  doing  there  all 
that  time? — Charity,  for  pity's  sake,  tell  me.  I've 
got  to  know,  to  stop  their  talking." 

This  pathetic  abdication  of  all  authority  over  her 
did  not  move  her:  she  could  feel  only  the  outrage 
of  his  interference. 

"Can't  you  see  that  I  don't  care  what  anybody 
says  ?  It's  true  I  went  there  to  see  him ;  and  he  was 
in  his  room,  and  I  stood  outside  for  ever  so  long 
and  watched  him ;  but  I  dursn't  go  in  for  fear  he'd 


SUMMER 

think  I'd  come  after  him.  .  .  ."  She  felt  her  voice 
breaking,  and  gathered  it  up  in  a  last  defiance.  "As 
long  as  I  live  I'll  never  forgive  you!"  she  cried. 

Mr.  Royall  made  no  answer.  He  sat  and  pon 
dered  with  sunken  head,  his  veined  hands  clasped 
about  the  arms  of  his  chair.  Age  seemed  to  have 
come  down  on  him  as  winter  comes  on  the  hills 
after  a  storm.  At  length  he  looked  up. 

"Charity,  you  say  you  don't  care;  but  you're  the 
proudest  girl  I  know,  and  the  last  to  want  people 
to  talk  against  you.  You  know  there's  always  eyes 
watching  you :  you're  handsomer  and  smarter  than 
the  rest,  and  that's  enough.  But  till  lately  you've 
never  given  them  a  chance.  Now  they've  got  it, 
and  they're  going  to  use  it.  I  believe  what  you 
say,  but  they  won't.  ...  It  was  Mrs.  Tom  Fry 
seen  you  going  in  ...  and  two  or  three  of  them 
watched  for  you  to  come  out  again.  .  .  .  You've 
been  with  the  fellow  all  day  long  every  day  since  he 
come  here  .  .  .  and  I'm  a  lawyer,  and  I  know  how 
hard  slander  dies."  He  paused,  but  she  stood  mo 
tionless,  without  giving  him  any  sign  of  acqui 
escence  or  even  of  attention.  "He's  a  pleasant  fel 
low  to  talk  to — I  liked  having  him  here  myself. 
The  young  men  up  here  ain't  had  his  chances.  But 


SUMMER 

there's  one  thing  as  old  as  the  hills  and  as  plain 
as  daylight:  if  he'd  wanted  you  the  right  way  he'd 
have  said  so." 

Charity  did  not  speak.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
nothing  could  exceed  the  bitterness  of  hearing  such 
words  from  such  lips. 

Mr.  Royall  rose  from  his  seat.  "See  here,  Char 
ity  Royall:  I  had  a  shameful  thought  once,  and 
you've  made  me  pay  for  it.  Isn't  that  score  pretty 
near  wiped  out?  .  .  .  There's  a  streak  in  me  I  ain't 
always  master  of ;  but  I've  always  acted  straight  to 
you  but  that  once.  And  you've  known  I  would — 
you've  trusted  me.  For  all  your  sneers  and  your 
mockery  you've  always  known  I  loved  you  the  way 
a  man  loves  a  decent  woman.  I'm  a  good  many 
years  older  than  you,  but  I'm  head  and  shoulders 
above  this  place  and  everybody  in  it,  and  you  know 
that  too.  I  slipped  up  once,  but  that's  no  reason 
for  not  starting  again.  If  you'll  come  with  me 
I'll  do  it.  If  you'll  marry  me  we'll  leave  here  and 
settle  in  some  big  town,  where  there's  men,  and 
business,  and  things  doing.  It's  not  too  late  for  me 
to  find  an  opening.  ...  I  can  see  it  by  the  way 
folks  treat  me  when  I  go  down  to  Hepburn  or  Net- 
tleton.  .  .  ." 

[TT6] 


SUMMER 

Charity  made  no  movement.  Nothing  in  his 
appeal  reached  her  heart,  and  she  thought  only  of 
words  to  wound  and  wither.  But  a  growing  las 
situde  restrained  her.  What  did  anything  matter 
that  he  was  saying?  She  saw  the  old  life  closing  in 
on  her,  and  hardly  heeded  his  fanciful  picture  of 
renewal. 

"Charity — Charity — say  you'll  do  it,"  she  heard 
him  urge,  all  his  lost  years  and  wasted  passion 
in  his  voice. 

"Oh,  what's  the  use  of  all  this?  When  I  leave 
here  it  won't  be  with  you/' 

She  moved  toward  the  door  as  she  spoke,  and 
he  stood  up  and  placed  himself  between  her  and 
the  threshold.  He  seemed  suddenly  tall  and  strong, 
as  though  the  extremity  of  his  humiliation  had 
given  him  new  vigour. 

"That's  all,  is  it?  It's  not  much."  He  leaned 
against  the  door,  so  towering  and  powerful  that 
he  seemed  to  fill  the  narrow  room.  "Well,  then — - 
look  here.  .  .  .  You're  right:  Fve  no  claim  on  you 
— why  should  you  look  at  a  broken  man  like  me? 
You  want  the  other  fellow  .  .  .  and  I  don't  blame 
you.  You  picked  out  the  best  when  you  seen  it  ... 
well,  that  was  always  my  way/'  He  fixed  his  stern 


SUMMER 

eyes  on  her,  and  she  had  the  sense  that  the  strug 
gle  within  him  was  at  its  highest.     "Do  you  want 

.•V '' '  tf . 

him  t<;|  iharry  you?"  he  asked. 

They  stood  and  looked  at  each  other  for  a  long 
moment,  eye  to  eye,  with  the  terrible  equality  of 
courage  that  sometimes  made  her  feel  as  if  she  had 
his  blood  in  her  veins. 

"Do  you  want  him  to — say?  I'll  have  him  here 
in  an  hour  if  you  do.  I  ain't  been  in  the  law  thirty 
years  for  nothing.  He's  hired  Carrick  Fry's  team 
to  take  him  to  Hepburn,  but  he  ain't  going  to  start 
for  another  hour.  And  I  can  put  things  to  him  so 
he  won't  be  long  deciding.  .  .  .  He's  soft :  I  could 
see  that.  I  don't  say  you  won't  be  sorry  afterward 
— but,  by  God,  I'll  give  you  the  chance  to  be,  if  you 
say  so." 

She  heard  him  out  in  silence,  too  remote  from  all 
he  was  feeling  and  saying  for  any  sally  of  scorn  to 
relieve  her.  As  she  listened,  there  flitted  through 
her  mind  the  vision  of  Liff  Hyatt's  muddy  boot 
coming  down  on  the  white  bramble-flowers.  The 
same  thing  had  happened  now ;  something  transient 
and  exquisite  had  flowered  in  her,  and  she  had  stood 
by  and  seen  it  trampled  to  earth.  While  the  thought 
passed  through  her  she  was  aware  of  Mr.  Royall, 
[nS] 


SUMMER 

still  leaning  against  the  door,  but  crestfallen,  di 
minished,  as  though  her  silence  were  the  answer 
he  most  dreaded. 

"I  don't  want  any  chance  you  can  give  me :  I'm 
glad  he's  going  away,"  she  said. 

He  kept  his  place  a  moment  longer,  his  hand 
on  the  door-knob.  "Charity!"  he  pleaded.  She 
made  no  answer,  and  he  turned  the  knob  and  went 
out.  She  heard  him  fumble  with  the  latch  of  the 
front  door,  and  saw  him  walk  down  the  steps.  He 
passed  out  of  the  gate,  and  his  figure,  stooping  and 
heavy,  receded  slowly  up  the  street. 

For  a  while  she  remained  where  he  had  left  her. 
She  was  still  trembling  with  the  humiliation  of  his 
last  words,  which  rang  so  loud  in  her  ears  that  it 
seemed  as  though  they  must  echo  through  the  vil 
lage,  proclaiming  her  a  creature  to  lend  herself  to 
such  vile  suggestions.  Her  shame  weighed  on  her 
like  a  physical  oppression :  the  roof  and  walls 
seemed  to  be  closing  in  on  her,  and  she  was  seized 
by  the  impulse  to  get  away,  under  the  open  sky, 
where  there  would  be  room  to  breathe.  She  went 
to  the  front  door,  and  as  she  did  so  Lucius  Harney 
opened  it. 

He  looked  graver  and  less  confident  than  usual, 


SUMMER 

and  for  a  moment  or  two  neither  of  them  spoke. 
Then  he  held  out  his  hand.  "Are  you  going  out?" 
he  asked.  "May  I  come  in?" 

Her  heart  was  beating  so  violently  that  she  was 
afraid  to  speak,  and  stood  looking  at  him  with  tear- 
dilated  eyes;  then  she  became  aware  of  what  her 
silence  must  betray,  and  said  quickly :  "Yes :  come 


in." 


She  led  the  way  into  the  dining-room,  and  they 
sat  down  on  opposite  sides  of  the  table,  the  cruet- 
stand  and  japanned  bread-basket  between  them. 
Harney  had  laid  his  straw  hat  on  the  table,  and  as 
he  sat  there,  in  his  easy-looking  summer  clothes, 
a  brown  tie  knotted  under  his  flannel  collar,  and  his 
smooth  brown  hair  brushed  back  from  his  fore 
head,  she  pictured  him,  as  she  had  seen  him  the 
night  before,  lying  on  his  bed,  with  the  tossed  locks 
falling  into  his  eyes,  and  his  bare  throat  rising  out 
of  his  unbuttoned  shirt.  He  had  never  seemed 
so  remote  as  at  the  moment  when  that  vision  flashed 
through  her  mind. 

"I'm  so  sorry  it's  good-bye :  I  suppose  you  knowr 
I'm  leaving,"  he  began,  abruptly  and  awkwardly; 
she  guessed  that  he  was  wondering  how  much  she 
knew  of  his  reasons  for  going. 
[120] 


SUMMER 

"I  presume  you  found  your  work  was  over 
quicker  than  what  you  expected,'*  she  said. 

"Well,  yes — that  is,  no :  there  are  plenty  of  things  | 
I  should  have  liked  to  do.     But  my  holiday's  lim 
ited  ;  and  now  that  Mr.  Royall  needs  the  horse  for 
himself  it's  rather  difficult  to  find  means  of  get 
ting  about" 

"There  ain't  any  too  many  teams  for  hire  around 
here,"  she  acquiesced;  and  there  was  another  si 
lence. 

-i 

"These  days  here  have  been — awfully  pleasant: 
I  wanted  to  thank  you  for  making  them  so/'  he 
continued,  his  colour  rising. 

She  could  not  think  of  any  reply,  and  he  went  on : 
"You've  been  wonderfully  kind  to  me,  and  I  wanted 
to  tell  you.  ...  I  wish  I  could  think  of  you  as 
happier,  less  lonely.  .  .  .  Things  are  sure  to  change 
for  you  by  and  by.  .  .  ." 

"Things  don't  change  at  North  Dormer:  people 
just  get  used  to  them." 

The  answer  seemed  to  break  up  the  order  of  his 
pre-arranged  consolations,  and  he  sat  looking  at  her 
uncertainly.  Then  he  said,  with  his  sweet  smile: 
"That's  not  true  of  you.  It  can't  be." 

The  smile  was  like  a  knife-thrust  through  her 

[12!] 


SUMMER 

heart :  everything  in  her  began  to  tremble  and  break 
loose.  She  felt  her  tears  run  over,  and  stood  up. 

"Well,  good-bye,"  she  said. 

She  was  aware  of  his  taking  her  hand,  and  of 
feeling  that  his  touch  was  lifeless. 

"Good-bye."  He  turned  away,  and  stopped  on 
the  threshold.  "You'll  say  good-bye  for  me  to 
Verena?" 

She  heard  the  closing  of  the  outer  door  and  the 
sound  of  his  quick  tread  along  the  path.  The  latch 
of  the  gate  clicked  after  him. 

The  next  morning  when  she  arose  in  the  cold 
dawn  and  opened  her  shutters  she  saw  a  freckled 
boy  standing  on  the  other  side  of  the  road  and 
looking  up  at  her.  He  was  a  boy  from  a  farm  three 
or  four  miles  down  the  Creston  road,  and  she  won 
dered  what  he  was  doing  there  at  that  hour,  and 
why  he  looked  so  hard  at  her  window.  When  he 
saw  her  he  crossed  over  and  leaned  against  the  gate 
unconcernedly.  There  was  no  one  stirring  in  the 
house,  and  she  threw  a  shawl  over  her  night-gown 
and  ran  down  and  let  herself  out.  By  the  time  she 
reached  the  gate  the  boy  was  sauntering  down 
the  road,  whistling  carelessly;  but  she  saw  that  a 
letter  had  been  thrust  between  the  slats  and  the 

[122] 


SUMMER 

crossbar  of  the  gate.     She  took  it  out  and  hastened 
back  to  her  room. 

The  envelope  bore  her  name,  and  inside  was  a 
leaf  torn  from  a  pocket-diary. 

DEAR  CHARITY: 

I  can't  go  away  like  this.  I  am  staying  for  a  few 
days  at  Creston  River.  Will  you  come  down  and  meet 
me  at  Creston  pool?  I  will  wait  for  you  till  evening. 


IX 


HARITY  sat  before  the  mirror  trying  on  a 
hat  which  Ally  Hawes,  with  much  secrecy, 
had  trimmed  for  her.  It  was  of  white  straw,  with 
a  drooping  brim  and  cherry-coloured  lining  that 
made  her  face  glow  like  the  inside  of  the  shell  on 
the  parlour  mantelpiece. 

She  propped  the  square  of  looking-glass  against 
Mr.  Royall's  black  leather  Bible,  steadying  it  in 
front  with  a  white  stone  on  which  a  view  of  the 
Brooklyn  Bridge  was  painted;  and  she  sat  before 
her  reflection,  bending  the  brirn  this  way  and  that, 
while  Ally  Hawes's  pale  face  looked  over  her  shoul 
der  like  the  ghost  of  wasted  opportunities. 

"I  look  awful,  don't  I?'*  she  said  at  last  with  a 
happy  sigh. 

Ally  smiled  and  took  back  the  hat.  "I'll  stitch  the 
roses  on  right  here,  so's  you  can  put  it  away  at 
once." 

Charity  laughed,  and  ran  her  fingers  through  her 
rough  dark  hair.  She  knew  that  Harney  liked  to 
[124] 


SUMMER 

see  its  reddish  edges  ruffled  about  her  forehead  and 
breaking  into  little  rings  at  the  nape.  She  sat  down 
on  her  bed  and  watched  Ally  stoop  over  the  hat  with 
a  careful  frown. 

"Don't  you  ever  feel  like  going  down  to  Nettle- 
ton  for  a  day?"  she  asked. 

Ally  shook  her  head  without  looking  up.  "No, 
I  always  remember  that  awful  time  I  went  down 
with  Julia — to  that  doctor's." 

"Oh,  Ally " 

"I  can't  help  it.  The  house  is  on  the  corner  of 
Wing  Street  and  Lake  Avenue.  The  trolley  from 
the  station  goes  right  by  it,  and  the  day  the  min 
ister  took  us  down  to  see  those  pictures  I  recog 
nized  it  right  off,  and  couldn't  seem  to  see  any 
thing  else.  There's  a  big  black  sign  with  gold 
letters  all  across  the  front — 'Private  Consultations.' 
She  came  as  near  as  anything  to  dying.  .  .  ." 

"Poor  Julia!"  Charity  sighed  from  the  height 
of  her  purity  and  her  security.  She  had  a  friend 
whom  she  trusted  and  who  respected  her.  She  was 
going  with  him  to  spend  the  next  day — the  Fourth 
of  July — at  Nettleton.  Whose  business  was  it  but 
hers,  and  what  was  the  harm?  The  pity  of  it  was 
that  girls  like  Julia  did  not  know  how  to  choose, 


SUMMER 

and  to  keep  bad  fellows  at  a  distance.  .  .  .  Charity 
slipped  down  from  the  bed,  and  stretched  out  her 
hands. 

"Is  it  sewed?  Let  me  try  it  on  again."  She  put 
the  hat  on,  and  smiled  at  her  image.  The  thought 
of  Julia  had  vanished.  .  .  . 

The  next  morning  she  was  up  before  dawn,  and 
saw  the  yellow  sunrise  broaden  behind  the  hills, 
and  the  silvery  luster  preceding  a  hot  day  tremble 
across  the  sleeping  fields. 

Her  plans  had  been  made  with  great  care.  She 
had  announced  that  she  was  going  down  to  the 
Band  of  Hope  picnic  at  Hepburn,  and  as  no  one 
else  from  North  Dormer  intended  to  venture  so  far 
it  was  not  likely  that  her  absence  from  the  festivity 
would  be  reported.  Besides,  if  it  were  she  would 
not  greatly  care.  She  was  determined  to  assert  her 
independence,  and  if  she  stooped  to  fib  about  the 
Hepburn  picnic  it  was  chiefly  from  the  secretive  in 
stinct  that  made  her  dread  the  profanation  of  her 
happiness.  Whenever  she  was  with  Lucius  Harney 
she  would  have  liked  some  impenetrable  mountain 
mist  to  hide  her. 

It  was  arranged  that  she  should  walk  to  a  point 


SUMMER 

of  the  Creston  road  where  Harney  was  to  pick  her 
up  and  drive  her  across  the  hills  to  Hepburn  in  time 
for  the  nine-thirty  train  to  Nettleton.  Harney  at 
first  had  been  rather  lukewarm  about  the  trip.  He 
declared  himself  ready  to  take  her  to  Nettleton, 
but  urged  her  not  to  go  on  the  Fourth  of  July, 
on  account  of  the  crowds,  the  probable  lateness  of 
the  trains,  the  difficulty  of  her  getting  back  before 
night;  but  her  evident  disappointment  caused  him 
to  give  way,  and  even  to  affect  a  faint  enthusiasm 
for  the  adventure.  She  understood  why  he  was  not 
more  eager :  he  must  have  seen  sights  beside  which 
even  a  Fourth  of  July  at  Nettleton  would  seem 
tame.  But  she  had  never  seen  anything ;  and  a  great 
longing  possessed  her  to  walk  the  streets  of  a  big 
town  on  a  holiday,  clinging  to  his  arm  and  jostled 
by  idle  crowds  in  their  best  clothes.  The  only  cloud 
on  the  prospect  was  the  fact  that  the  shops  would 
be  closed ;  but  she  hoped  he  would  take  her  back  an 
other  day,  when  they  were  open. 

She  started  out  unnoticed  in  the  early  sunlight, 
slipping  through  the  kitchen  while  Verena  bent 
above  the  stove.  To  avoid  attracting  notice,  she 
carried  her  new  hat  carefully  wrapped  up,  and  had 
thrown  a  long  grey  veil  of  Mrs.  Royall's  over  the 
[127] 


SUMMER 

new  white  muslin  dress  which  Ally's  clever  fingers 
had  made  for  her.  All  of  the  ten  dollars  Mr.  Royall 
had  given  her,  and  a  part  of  her  own  savings  as 
well,  had  been  spent  on  renewing  her  wardrobe; 
and  when  Harney  jumped  out  of  the  buggy  to  meet 
her  she  read  her  reward  in  his  eyes. 

The  freckled  boy  who  had  brought  her  the  note 
two  weeks  earlier  was  to  wait  with  the  buggy  at 
Hepburn  till  their  return.  He  perched  at  Charity's 
feet,  his  legs  dangling  between  the  wheels,  and  they 
could  not  say  much  because  of  his  presence.  But 
it  did  not  greatly  matter,  for  their  past  was  now 
rich  enough  to  have  given  them  a  private  language ; 
and  with  the  long  day  stretching  before  them  like 
the  blue  distance  beyond  the  hills  there  was  a  deli 
cate  pleasure  in  postponement. 

When  Charity,  in  response  to  Harney's  message, 
had  gone  to  meet  him  at  the  Creston  pool  her  heart 
had  been  so  full  of  mortification  and  anger  that 
his  first  words  might  easily  have  estranged  her. 
But  it  happened  that  he  had  found  the  right  word, 
which  was  one  of  simple  friendship.  His  tone  had 
instantly  justified  her,  and  put  her  guardian  in 
the  wrong.  He  had  made  no  allusion  to  what  had 
passed  between  Mr.  Royall  and  himself,  but  had 


SUMMER 

simply  let  it  appear  that  he  had  left  because  means 
of  conveyance  were  hard  to  find  at  North  Dormer, 
and  because  Creston  River  was  a  more  convenient 
centre.  He  told  her  that  he  had  hired  by  the  week 
the  buggy  of  the  freckled  boy's  father,  who  served 
as  livery-stable  keeper  to  one  or  two  melancholy 
summer  boarding-houses  on  Creston  Lake,  and  had 
discovered,  within  driving  distance,  a  number  of 
houses  worthy  of  his  pencil;  and  he  said  that  he 
could  not,  while  he  was  in  the  neighbourhood, 
give  up  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  as  often  as  pos 
sible. 

When  they  took  leave  of  each  other  she  promised 
to  continue  to  be  his  guide;  and  during  the  fort 
night  which  followed  they  roamed  the  hills  in  happy 
comradeship.  In  most  of  the  village  friendships 
between  youths  and  maidens  lack  of  conversation 
was  made  up  for  by  tentative  fondling;  but  Har- 
ney,  except  when  he  had  tried  to  comfort  her  in  her 
trouble  on  their  way  back  from  the  Hyatts',  had 
never  put  his  arm  about  her,  or  sought  to  betray 
her  into  any  sudden  caress.  It  seemed  to  be  enough 
for  him  to  breathe  her  nearness  like  a  flower's ;  and 
since  his  pleasure  at  being  with  her,  and  his  sense 
of  her  youth  and  her  grace,  perpetually  shone  in 
9  [I29] 


SUMMER 

his  eyes  and  softened  the  inflection  of  his  voice,  his 
reserve  did  not  suggest  coldness,  but  the  deference 
due  to  a  girl  of  his  own  class. 

The  buggy  was  drawn  by  an  old  trotter  who 
whirled  them  along  so  briskly  that  the  pace  created 
a  little  breeze;  but  when  they  reached  Hepburn  the 
full  heat  of  the  airless  morning  descended  on  them. 
At  the  railway  station  the  platform  was  packed 
with  a  sweltering  throng,  and  they  took  refuge  in 
the  waiting-room,  where  there  was  another  throng, 
already  dejected  by  the  heat  and  the  long  waiting 
for  retarded  trains.  Pale  mothers  were  struggling 
with  fretful  babies,  or  trying  to  keep  their  older 
offspring  from  the  fascination  of  the  track;  girls 
and  their  "fellows"  were  giggling  and  shoving,  and 
passing  about  candy  in  sticky  bags,  and  older  men, 
collarless  and  perspiring,  were  shifting  heavy  chil 
dren  from  one  arm  to  the  other,  and  keeping  a 
haggard  eye  on  the  scattered  members  of  their  fam 
ilies. 

At  last  the  train  rumbled  in,  and  engulfed  the 
waiting  multitude.  Harney  swept  Charity  up  on 
to  the  first  car  and  they  captured  a  bench  for  two, 
and  sat  in  happy  isolation  while  the  train  swayed 
and  roared  along  through  rich  fields  and  languid 

[130] 


SUMMER 

tree-clumps.  The  haze  of  the  morning  had  become 
a  sort  of  clear  tremor  over  everything,  like  the  col 
ourless  vibration  about  a  flame;  and  the  opulent 
landscape  seemed  to  droop  under  it.  But  to  Charity 
the  heat  was  a  stimulant:  it  enveloped  the  whole 
world  in  the  same  glow  that  burned  at  her  heart. 
Now  and  then  a  lurch  of  the  train  flung  her  against 
Harney,  and  through  her  thin  muslin  she  felt  the 
touch  of  his  sleeve.  She  steadied  herself,  their  eyes 
met,  and  the  flaming  breath  of  the  day  seemed  to 
enclose  them. 

The  train  roared  into  the  Nettleton  station,  the 
descending  mob  caught  them  on  its  tide,  and  they 
were  swept  out  into  a  vague  dusty  square  thronged 
with  seedy  "hacks"  and  long  curtained  omnibuses 
drawn  by  horses  with  tasselled  fly-nets  over  their 
withers,  who  stood  swinging  their  depressed  heads 
drearily  from  side  to  side. 

A  mob  of  'bus  and  hack  drivers  were  shouting 
"To  the  Eagle  House,"  "To  the  Washington 
House,"  "This  way  to  the  Lake,"  "Just  starting  for 
Greytop;"  and  through  their  yells  came  the  popping 
of  fire-crackers,  the  explosion  of  torpedoes,  the 
banging  of  toy-guns,  and  the  crash  of  a  firemen's 
band  trying  to  play  the  Merry  Widow  while  they 


SUMMER 

were  being  packed  into  a  waggonette  streaming  with 
bunting. 

The  ramshackle  wooden  hotels  about  the  square 
were  all  hung  with  flags  and  paper  lanterns,  and  as 
Harney  and  Charity  turned  into  the  main  street, 
with  its  brick  and  granite  business  blocks  crowding 
out  the  old  low-storied  shops,  and  its  towering 
poles  strung  with  innumerable  wires  that  seemed  to 
tremble  and  buzz  in  the  heat,  they  saw  the  double 
line  of  flags  and  lanterns  tapering  away  gaily  to 
the  park  at  the  other  end  of  the  perspective.  The 
noise  and  colour  of  this  holiday  vision  seemed  to 
transform  Nettleton  into  a  metropolis.  Charity 
could  not  believe  that  Springfield  or  even  Boston 
had  anything  grander  to  show,  and  she  wondered 
if,  at  this  very  moment,  Annabel  Balch,  on  the  arm 
of  as  brilliant  a  young  man,  were  threading  her  way 
through  scenes  as  resplendent. 

"Where  shall  we  go  first ?"  Hamey  asked;  but 
as  she  turned  her  happy  eyes  on  him  he  guessed  the 
answer  and  said :  "We'll  take  a  look  round,  shall 
we?" 

The  street  swarmed  with  their  fellow-travellers, 
with  other  excursionists  arriving  from  other  di 
rections,  with  Nettleton's  own  population,  and  with 


SUMMER 

the  mill-hands  trooping  in  from  the  factories  on 
the  Creston.  The  shops  were  closed,  but  one  would 
scarcely  have  noticed  it,  so  numerous  were  the  glass 
doors  swinging  open  on  saloons,  on  restaurants, 
on  drug-stores  gushing  from  every  soda-water  tap, 
on  fruit  and  confectionery  shops  stacked  with  straw 
berry-cake,  cocoanut  drops,  trays  of  glistening  mo 
lasses  candy,  boxes  of  caramels  and  chewing-gum, 
baskets  of  sodden  strawberries,  and  dangling 
branches  of  bananas.  Outside  of  some  of  the  doors 
were  trestles  with  banked-up  oranges  and  apples, 
spotted  pears  and  dusty  raspberries;  and  the  air 
reeked  with  the  smell  of  fruit  and  stale  coffee,  beer 
and  sarsaparilla  and  fried  potatoes. 

Even  the  shops  that  were  closed  offered,  through 
wide  expanses  of  plate-glass,  hints  of  hidden  riches. 
In  some,  waves  of  silk  and  ribbon  broke  over  shores 
of  imitation  moss  from  which  ravishing  hats  rose 
like  tropical  orchids.  In  others,  the  pink  throats  of 
gramophones  opened  their  giant  convolutions  in 
a  soundless  chorus ;  or  bicycles  shining  in  neat  ranks 
seemed  to  await  the  signal  of  an  invisible  starter; 
or  tiers  of  fancy-goods  in  leatherette  and  paste  and 
celluloid  dangled  their  insidious  graces ;  and,  in  one 
vast  bay  that  seemed  to  project  them  into  exciting 


SUMMER 

contact  with  the  public,  wax  ladies  in  daring  dresses 
chatted  elegantly,  or,  with  gestures  intimate  yet 
blameless,  pointed  to  their  pink  corsets  and  trans 
parent  hosiery. 

Presently  Harney  found  that  his  watch  had 
stopped,  and  turned  in  at  a  small  jeweller's  shop 
which  chanced  to  be  still  open.  While  the  watch 
was  being  examined  Charity  leaned  over  the  glass 
counter  where,  on  a  background  of  dark  blue  vel 
vet,  pins,  rings  and  brooches  glittered  like  the  moon 
and  stars.  She  had  never  seen  jewellery  so  near  by, 
and  she  longed  to  lift  the  glass  lid  and  plunge  her 
hand  among  the  shining  treasures.  But  already 
Harney's  watch  was  repaired,  and  he  laid  his  hand 
on  her  arm  and  drew  her  from  her  dream. 

"Which  do  you  like  best  ?"  he  asked  leaning  over 
the  counter  at  her  side. 

"I  don't  know.  .  .  ."  She  pointed  to  a  gold  lily- 
of-the-valley  with  white  flowers. 

"Don't  you  think  the  blue  pin's  better?"  he  sug 
gested,  and  immediately  she  saw  that  the  lily  of  the 
valley  was  mere  trumpery  compared  to  the  small 
round  stone,  blue  as  a  mountain  lake,  with  little 
sparks  of  light  all  round  it.  She  coloured  at  her 
want  of  discrimination. 

[134] 


SUMMER 

"It's  so  lovely  I  guess  I  was  afraid  to  look  at 
it/'  she  said. 

He  laughed,  and  they  went  out  of  the  shop;  but  a 
few  steps  away  he  exclaimed :  "Oh,  by  Jove,  I  for 
got  something,"  and  turned  back  and  left  her  in 
the  crowd.  She  stood  staring  down  a  row  of  pink 
gramophone  throats  till  he  rejoined  her  and  slipped 
his  arm  through  hers. 

"You  mustn't  be  afraid  of  looking  at  the  blue 
pin  any  longer,  because  it  belongs  to  you,"  he  said ; 
and  she  felt  a  little  box  being  pressed  into  her  hand. 
Her  heart  gave  a  leap  of  joy,  but  it  reached  her 
lips  only  in  a  shy  stammer.  She  remembered  other 
girls  whom  she  had  heard  planning  to  extract  pres 
ents  from  their  fellows,  and  was  seized  with  a  sud 
den  dread  lest  Harney  should  have  imagined  that 
she  had  leaned  over  the  pretty  things  in  the  glass 
case  in  the  hope  of  having  one  given  to  her.  .  .  . 

A  little  farther  down  the  street  they  turned  in  at 
a  glass  doorway  opening  on  a  shining  hall  with  a 
mahogany  staircase,  and  brass  cages  in  its  corners, 
"We  must  have  something  to  eat,"  Harney  said; 
and  the  next  moment  Charity  found  herself  in  a 
dressing-room  all  looking-glass  and  lustrous  sur 
faces,  where  a  party  of  showy-looking  girls  were 

[135] 


SUMMER 

dabbing  on  powder  and  straightening  immense 
plumed  hats.  When  they  had  gone  she  took  courage 
to  bathe  her  hot  face  in  one  of  the  marble  basins, 
and  to  straighten  her  own  hat-brim,  which  the  para 
sols  of  the  crowd  had  indented.  The  dresses  in 
the  shops  had  so  impressed  her  that  she  scarcely 
dared  look  at  her  reflection;  but  when  she  did  so, 
the  glow  of  her  face  under  her  cherry-coloured  hat, 
and  the  curve  of  her  young  shoulders  through  the 
transparent  muslin,  restored  her  courage ;  and  when 
she  had  taken  the  blue  brooch  from  its  box  and 
pinned  it  on  her  bosom  she  walked  toward  the  res 
taurant  with  her  head  high,  as  if  she  had  always 
strolled  through  tessellated  halls  beside  young  men 
in  flannels. 

Her  spirit  sank  a  little  at  the  sight  of  the  slim- 
waisted  waitresses  in  black,  with  bewitching  mob- 
caps  on  their  haughty  heads,  who  were  moving 
disdainfully  between  the  tables.  "Not  f  r  another 
hour,"  one  of  them  dropped  to  Harney  in  passing; 
and  he  stood  doubtfully  glancing  about  him. 

"Oh,  well,  we  can't  stay  sweltering  here,"  he 
decided;  "let's  try  somewhere  else — "  and  with  a 
sense  of  relief  Charity  followed  him  from  that  scene 
of  inhospitable  splendour. 

[136] 


SUMMER 

That  "somewhere  else"  turned  out — after  more 
hot  tramping,  and  several  failures — to  be,  of  all 
things,  a  little  open-air  place  in  a  back  street  that 
called  itself  a  French  restaurant,  and  consisted  in 
two  or  three  rickety  tables  under  a  scarlet-runner, 
between  a  patch  of  zinnias  and  petunias  and  a  big 
elm  bending  over  from  the  next  yard.  Here  they 
lunched  on  queerly  flavoured  things,  while  Harney, 
leaning  back  in  a  crippled  rocking-chair,  smoked 
cigarettes  between  the  courses  and  poured  into 
Charity's  glass  a  pale  yellow  wine  which  he  said 
was  the  very  same  one  drank  in  just  such  jolly 
places  in  France. 

Charity  did  not  think  the  wine  as  good  as  sarsa- 
parilla,  but  she  sipped  a  mouthful  for  the  pleasure 
of  doing  what  he  did,  and  of  fancying  herself  alone 
with  him  in  foreign  countries.  The  illusion  was 
increased  by  their  being  served  by  a  deep-bosomed 
woman  with  smooth  hair  and  a  pleasant  laugh,  who 
talked  to  Harney  in  unintelligible  words,  and 
seemed  amazed  and  overjoyed  at  his  answering  her 
in  kind.  At  the  other  tables  other  people  sat,  mill- 
hands  probably,  homely  but  pleasant  looking,  who 
spoke  the  same  shrill  jargon,  and  looked  at  Harney 
and  Charity  with  friendly  eyes;  and  between  the 

[137] 


SUMMER 

table-legs  a  poodle  with  bald  patches  and  pink  eyes 
nosed  about  for  scraps,  and  sat  up  on  his  hind  legs 
absurdly. 

Harney  showed  no  inclination  to  move,  for  hot 
as  their  corner  was,  it  was  at  least  shaded  and 
quiet;  and,  from  the  main  thoroughfares  came  the 
clanging  of  trolleys,  the  incessant  popping  of  tor 
pedoes,  the  jingle  of  street-organs,  the  bawling  of 
megaphone  men  and  the  loud  murmur  of  increasing 
crowds.  He  leaned  back,  smoking  his  cigar,  pat 
ting  the  dog,  and  stirring  the  coffee  that  steamed 
in  their  chipped  cups.  "It's  the  real  thing,  you 
know/'  he  explained;  and  Charity  hastily  revised 
her  previous  conception  of  the  beverage. 

They  had  made  no  plans  for  the  rest  of  the  day, 
and  when  Harney  asked  her  what  she  wanted  to  do 
next  she  was  too  bewildered  by  rich  possibilities 
to  find  an  answer.  Finally  she  confessed  that  she 
longed  to  go  to  the  Lake,  where  she  had  not  been 
taken  on  her  former  visit,  and  when  he  answered, 
"Oh,  there's  time  for  that — it  will  be  pleasanter 
later,"  she  suggested  seeing  some  pictures  like  the 
ones  Mr.  Miles  had  taken  her  to.  She  thought  Har 
ney  looked  a  little  disconcerted;  but  he  passed  his 
fine  handkerchief  over  his  warm  brow,  said  gaily, 


SUMMER 

"Come  along,  then,"  and  rose  with  a  last  pat  for 
the  pink-eyed  dog. 

Mr.  Miles's  pictures  had  been  shown  in  an  aus 
tere  Y.M.C.A.  hall,  with  white  walls  and  an  or 
gan;  but  Harney  led  Charity  to  a  glittering  place 
— everything  she  saw  seemed  to  glitter — where  they 
passed,  between  immense  pictures  of  yellow-haired 
beauties  stabbing  villains  in  evening  dress,  into  a 
velvet-curtained  auditorium  packed  with  spectators 
to  the  last  limit  of  compression.  After  that,  for  a 
while,  everything  was  merged  in  her  brain  in  swim 
ming  circles  of  heat  and  blinding  alternations  of 
light  and  darkness.  All  the  world  has  to  show 
seemed  to  pass  before  her  in  a  chaos  of  palms  and 
minarets,  charging  cavalry  regiments,  roaring  lions, 
comic  policemen  and  scowling  murderers;  and  the 
crowd  around  her,  the  hundreds  of  hot  sallow 
candy-munching  faces,  young,  old,  middle-aged,  but 
all  kindled  with  the  same  contagious  excitement, 
became  part  of  the  spectacle,  and  danced  on  the 
screen  with  the  rest. 

Presently  the  thought  of  the  cool  trolley-run  to 

the  Lake  grew  irresistible,  and  they  struggled  out 

of  the  theatre.     As  they  stood  on  the  pavement, 

Harney  pale  with  the  heat,  and  even  Charity  a  lit- 

[139] 


SUMMER 

tie  confused  by  it,  a  young  man  drove  by  in  an 
electric  run-about  with  a  calico  band  bearing  the 
words:  "Ten  dollars  to  take  you  round  the  Lake." 
Before  Charity  knew  what  was  happening,  Harney 
had  waved  a  hand,  and  they  were  climbing  in. 
"Say,  for  twcnny-five  I'll  run  you  out  to  see  the 
ball-game  and  back,"  the  driver  proposed  with  an 
insinuating  grin;  but  Charity  said  quickly:  "Oh, 
I'd  rather  go  rowing  on  the  Lake."  The  street 
was  so  thronged  that  progress  was  slow;  but  the 
glory  of  sitting  in  the  little  carriage  while  it  wrig 
gled  its  way  between  laden  omnibuses  and  trolleys 
made  the  moments  seem  too  short.  "Next  turn 
is  Lake  Avenue,"  the  young  man  called  out  over 
his  shoulder;  and  as  they  paused  in  the  wake  of 
a  big  omnibus  groaning  with  Knights  of  Pythias 
in  cocked  hats  and  swords,  Charity  looked  up  and 
saw  on  the  corner  a  brick  house  with  a  conspicuous 
black  and  gold  sign  across  its  front.  "Dr.  Merkle ; 
Private  Consultations  at  all  hours.  Lady  Attend 
ants,"  she  read ;  and  suddenly  she  remembered  Ally 
Hawes's  words :  "The  house  was  at  the  corner  of 
Wing  Street  and  Lake  Avenue  .  .  .  there's  a  big 
black  sign  across  the  front.  .  .  ."  Through  all  the 
heat  and  the  rapture  a  shiver  of  cold  ran  over  her. 
[140] 


THE  Lake  at  last — a  sheet  of  shining  metal 
brooded  over  by  drooping  trees.  Charity 
and  Harney  had  secured  a  boat  and,  getting  away 
from  the  wharves  and  the  refreshment-booths, 
they  drifted  idly  along,  hugging  the  shadow  of 
the  shore.  Where  the  sun  struck  the  water  its 
shafts  flamed  back  blindingly  at  the  heat-veiled  sky; 
and  the  least  shade  was  black  by  contrast.  The 
Lake  was  so  smooth  that  the  reflection  of  the  trees 
on  its  edge  seemed  enamelled  on  a  solid  surface; 
but  gradually,  as  the  sun  declined,  the  water  grew 
transparent,  and  Charity,  leaning  over,  plunged  her 
fascinated  gaze  into  depths  so  clear  that  she  saw 
the  inverted  tree-tops  interwoven  with  the  green 
growths  of  the  bottom. 

They  rounded  a  point  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
Lake,  and  entering  an  inlet  pushed  their  bow  against 
a  protruding  tree-trunk.  A  green  veil  of  willows 
overhung  them.  Beyond  the  trees,  wheat-fields 
sparkled  in  the  sun;  and  all  along  the  horizon  the 


SUMMER 

clear  hills  throbbed  with  light.  Charity  leaned 
back  in  the  stern,  and  Harney  unshipped  the  oars 
and  lay  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat  without 
speaking. 

Ever  since  their  meeting  at  the  Creston  pool  he 
had  been  subject  to  these  brooding  silences,  which 
were  as  different  as  possible  from  the  pauses  when 
they  ceased  to  speak  because  words  were  needless. 
At  such  times  his  face  wore  the  expression  she  had 
seen  on  it  when  she  had  looked  in  at  him  from 
the  darkness  and  again  there  came  over  her  a  sense 
of  the  mysterious  distance  between  them;  but  usu 
ally  his  fits  of  abstraction  were  followed  by  bursts 
of  gaiety  that  chased  away  the  shadow  before  it 
chilled  her. 

She  was  still  thinking  of  the  ten  dollars  he  had 
handed  to  the  driver  of  the  run-about.  It  had  given 
them  twenty  minutes  of  pleasure,  and  it  seemed 
unimaginable  that  anyone  should  be  able  to  buy 
amusement  at  that  rate.  With  ten  dollars  he  might 
have  bought  her  an  engagement  ring ;  she  knew  that 
Mrs.  Tom  Fry's,  which  came  from  Springfield,  and 
had  a  diamond  in  it,  had  cost  only  eight  seventy- 
five.  But  she  did  not  know  why  the  thought  had 
occurred  to  her.  Harney  would  never  buy  her  an 


SUMMER 

engagement  ring:  they  were  friends  and  comrades, 
but  no  more.  He  had  been  perfectly  fair  to  her: 
he  had  never  said  a  word  to  mislead  her.  She 
wondered  what  the  girl  was  like  whose  hand  was 
waiting  for  his  ring.  .  .  . 

Boats  were  beginning  to  thicken  on  the  Lake 
and  the  clang  of  incessantly  arriving  trolleys  an 
nounced  the  return  of  the  crowds  from  the  ball- 
field.  The  shadows  lengthened  across  the  pearl- 
grey  water  and  two  white  clouds  near  the  sun  were 
turning  golden.  On  the  opposite  shore  men  were 
hammering  hastily  at  a  wooden  scaffolding  in  a 
field.  Charity  asked  what  it  was  for. 

"Why,  the  fireworks.  I  suppose  there'll  be  a  big 
show.'1  Harney  looked  at  her  and  a  smile  crept 
into  his  moody  eyes.  "Have  you  never  seen  any 
good  fireworks?'* 

"Miss  Hatchard  always  sends  up  lovely  rockets 
on  the  Fourth,"  she  answered  doubtfully. 

"Oh "  his  contempt  was  unbounded.  "I  mean 

a  big  performance  like  this,  illuminated  boats,  and 
all  the  rest." 

She  flushed  at  the  picture.  "Do  they  send  them 
up  from  the  Lake,  too?" 

"Rather.  Didn't  you  notice  that  big  raft  we 
[143] 


SUMMER 

passed?  It's  wonderful  to  see  the  rockets  complet 
ing  their  orbits  down  under  one's  feet."  She  said 
nothing,  and  he  put  the  oars  into  the  rowlocks. 
"If  we  stay  we'd  better  go  and  pick  up  something 
to  eat." 

"But  how  can  we  get  back  afterwards?"  she  ven 
tured,  feeling  it  would  break  her  heart  if  she 
missed  it. 

He  consulted  a  time-table,  found  a  ten  o'clock 
train  and  reassured  her.  "The  moon  rises  so  late 
that  it  will  be  dark  by  eight,  and  we'll  have  over 
an  hour  of  it." 

Twilight  fell,  and  lights  began  to  show  along 
the  shore.  The  trolleys  roaring  out  from  Nettle- 
ton  became  great  luminous  serpents  coiling  in  and 
out  among  the  trees.  The  wooden  eating-houses 
at  the  Lake's  edge  danced  with  lanterns,  and  the 
dusk  echoed  with  laughter  and  shouts  and  the 
clumsy  splashing  of  oars. 

Harney  and  Charity  had  found  a  table  in  the 
corner  of  a  balcony  built  over  the  Lake,  and  were 
patiently  awaiting  an  unattainable  chowder.  Close 
under  them  the  water  lapped  the  piles,  agitated 
by  the  evolutions  of  a  little  white  steamboat  trel- 
lised  with  coloured  globes  which  was  to  run  pas- 
[144] 


SUMMER 

sengers  up  and  down  the  Lake.  It  was  already 
black  with  them  as  it  sheered  off  on  its  first 
trip. 

Suddenly  Charity  heard  a  woman's  laugh  behind 
her.  The  sound  was  familiar,  and  she  turned  to 
look.  A  band  of  showily  dressed  girls  and  dapper 
young  men  wearing  badges  of  secret  societies,  with 
new  straw  hats  tilted  far  back  on  their  square- 
clipped  hair,  had  invaded  the  balcony  and  were 
loudly  clamouring  for  a  table.  The  girl  in  the 
lead  was  the  one  who  had  laughed.  She  wore  a 
large  hat  with  a  long  white  feather,  and  from 
under  its  brim  her  painted  eyes  looked  at  Charity 
with  amused  recognition. 

"Say!  if  this  ain't  like  Old  Home  Week,"  she 
remarked  to  the  girl  at  her  elbow;  and  giggles  and 
glances  passed  between  them.  Charity  knew  at 
once  that  the  girl  with  the  white  feather  was  Julia 
Hawes.  She  had  lost  her  freshness,  and  the  paint 
under  her  eyes  made  her  face  seem  thinner;  but 
her  lips  had  the  same  lovely  curve,  and  the  same 
cold  mocking  smile,  as  if  there  were  some  secret 
absurdity  in  the  person  she  was  looking  at,  and 
she  had  instantly  detected  it. 

Charity  flushed  to  the  forehead  and  looked  away. 
10  [145] 


• 

SUMMER 

She  felt  herself  humiliated  by  Julia's  sneer,  and 
vexed  that  the  mockery  of  such  a  creature  should 
affect  her.  She  trembled  lest  Harney  should  no 
tice  that  the  noisy  troop  had  recognized  her;  but 
they  found  no  table  free,  and  passed  on  tumultu- 
ously. 

Presently  there  was  a  soft  rush  through  the  air 
and  a  shower  of  silver  fell  from  the  blue  evening 
sky.  In  another  direction,  pale  Roman  candles  shot 
up  singly  through  the  trees,  and  a  fire-haired  rocket 
swept  the  horizon  like  a  portent.  Between  these 
intermittent  flashes  the  velvet  curtains  of  the  dark 
ness  were  descending,  and  in  the  intervals  of  eclipse 
the  voices  of  the  crowds  seemed  to  sink  to  smoth 
ered  murmurs. 

Charity  and  Harney,  dispossessed  by  newcomers, 
were  at  length  obliged  to  give  up  their  table  and 
struggle  through  the  throng  about  the  boat-landings. 
For  a  while  there  seemed  no  escape  from  the  tide 
of  late  arrivals;  but  finally  Harney  secured  the 
last  two  places  on  the  stand  from  which  the  more 
privileged  were  to  see  the  fireworks.  The  seats 
were  at  the  end  of  a  row,  one  above  the  other. 
Charity  had  taken  off  her  hat  to  have  an  uninter 
rupted  view;  and  whenever  she  leaned  back  to  fol- 
[146] 


SUMMER 

low  the  curve  of  some  dishevelled  rocket  she  could 
feel  Harney's  knees  against  her  head. 

After  a  while  the  scattered  fireworks  ceased.  A 
longer  interval  of  darkness  followed,  and  then  the 
whole  night  broke  into  flower.  From  every  point 
of  the  horizon,  gold  and  silver  arches  sprang  up 
and  crossed  each  other,  sky-orchards  broke  into 
blossom,  shed  their  flaming  petals  and  hung  their 
branches  with  golden  fruit;  and  all  the  while  the 
air  was  filled  with  a  soft  supernatural  hum,  as 
though  great  birds  were  building  their  nests  in 
those  invisible  tree-tops. 

Now  and  then  there  came  a  lull,  and  a  wave  of 
moonlight  swept  the  Lake.  In  a  flash  it  revealed 
hundreds  of  boats,  steel-dark  against  lustrous  rip 
ples;  then  it  withdrew  as  if  with  a  furling  of  vast 
translucent  wings.  Charity's  heart  throbbed  with 
delight.  It  was  as  if  all  the  latent  beauty  of  things 
had  been  unveiled  to  her.  She  could  not  imagine 
that  the  world  held  anything  more  wonderful;  but 
near  her  she  heard  someone  say,  "You  wait  till 
you  see  the  set  piece,"  and  instantly  her  hopes 
took  a  fresh  flight.  At  last,  just  as  it  was  begin 
ning  to  seem  as  though  the  whole  arch  of  the  sky 
were  one  great  lid  pressed  against  her  dazzled  eye- 


SUMMER 

balls,  and  striking  out  of  them  continuous  jets  of 
jewelled  light,  the  velvet  darkness  settled  down 
again,  and  a  murmur  of  expectation  ran  through 
the  crowd. 

"Now — now !"  the  same  voice  said  excitedly ;  and 
Charity,  grasping  the  hat  on  her  knee,  crushed  it 
tight  in  the  effort  to  restrain  her  rapture. 

For  a  moment  the  night  seemed  to  grow  more 
impenetrably  black;  then  a  great  picture  stood  out 
against  it  like  a  constellation.  It  was  surmounted 
by  a  golden  scroll  bearing  the  inscription,  "Wash 
ington  crossing  the  Delaware,"  and  across  a  flood 
of  motionless  golden  ripples  the  National  Hero 
passed,  erect,  solemn  and  gigantic,  standing  with 
folded  arms  in  the  stern  of  a  slowly  moving  golden 
boat. 

A  long  "Oh-h-h"  burst  from  the  spectators :  the 
stand  creaked  and  shook  with  their  blissful  trepida 
tions.  "Oh-h-h,"  Charity  gasped :  she  had  forgot 
ten  where  she  was,  had  at  last  forgotten  even  Har- 
ney's  nearness.  She  seemed  to  have  been  caught 
up  into  the  stars.  .  .  . 

The  picture  vanished  and  darkness  came  down. 
In  the  obscurity  she  felt  her  head  clasped  by  two 
hands :  her  face  was  drawn  backward,  and  Harney's 


SUMMER 

7  lips  were  pressed  on  hers.  With  sudden  vehemence 
he  wound  his  arms  about  her,  holding  her  head 
against  his  breast  while  she  gave  him  back  his 
kisses.  An  unknown  Harney  had  revealed  himself, 
a  Harney  who  dominated  her  and  yet  over  whom 
she  felt  herself  possessed  of  a  new  mysterious 
power. 

But  the  crowd  was  beginning  to  move,  and  he 
had  to  release  her.  "Come,"  he  said  in  a  confused 
voice.  He  scrambled  over  the  side  of  the  stand, 
and  holding  up  his  arm  caught  her  as  she  sprang 
to  the  ground.  He  passed  his  arm  about  her  waist, 
steadying  her  against  the  descending  rush  of  peo 
ple;  and  she  clung  to  him,  speechless,  exultant,  as 
if  all  the  crowding  and  confusion  about  them  were 
a  mere  vain  stirring  of  the  air. 

"Come,"  he  repeated,  "we  must  try  to  make  the 
trolley."  He  drew  her  along,  and  she  followed, 
still  in  her  dream.  They  walked  as  if  they  were 
one,  so  isolated  in  ecstasy  that  the  people  jostling 
them  on  every  side  seemed  impalpable.  But  when 
they  reached  the  terminus  the  illuminated  trolley 
was  already  clanging  on  its  way,  its  platforms  black 

»     with  passengers.    The  cars  waiting  behind  it  were 
as  thickly  packed;  and  the  throng  about  the  ter- 
[1.49] 


SUMMER 

minus  was  so  dense  that  it  seemed  hopeless  to  strug- 
gle  for  a  place. 

"Last  trip  up  the  Lake,"  a  megaphone  bellowed 
from  the  wharf;  and  the  lights  of  the  little  steam 
boat  came  dancing  out  of  the  darkness. 

"No  use  waiting  here;  shall  we  run  up  the  Lake  ?" 
Harney  suggested. 

They  pushed  their  way  back  to  the  edge  of  the 
water  just  as  the  gang-plank  lowered  from  the  white 
side  of  the  boat.  The  electric  light  at  the  end  of 
the  wharf  flashed  full  on  the  descending  passen 
gers,  and  among  them  Charity  caught  sight  of  Julia 
Hawes,  her  white  feather  askew,  and  the  face  under 
it  flushed  with  coarse  laughter.  As  she  stepped 
from  the  gang-plank  she  stopped  short,  her  dark- 
ringed  eyes  darting  malice. 

"Hullo,  Charity  Royall !"  she  called  out ;  and  then, 
looking  back  over  her  shoulder :  "Didn't  I  tell  you 
it  was  a  family  party?  Here's  grandpa's  little 
daughter  come  to  take  him  home!" 

A  snigger  ran  through  the  group ;  and  then,  tow 
ering  above  them,  and  steadying  himself  by  the 
hand-rail  in  a  desperate  effort  at  erectness,  Mr. 
Royall  stepped  stiffly  ashore.  Like  the  young  men 
of  the  party,  he  wore  a  secret  society  emblem  in 

[150] 


SUMMER 

the  buttonhole  of  his  black  frock-coat.  His  head 
was  covered  by  a  new  Panama  hat,  and  his  nar 
row  black  tie,  half  undone,  dangled  down  on  his 
rumpled  shirt-front.  His  face,  a  livid  brown,  with 
red  blotches  of  anger  and  lips  sunken  in  like  an 
old  man's,  was  a  lamentable  ruin  in  the  searching 
glare. 

He  was  just  behind  Julia  Hawes,  and  had  one 
hand  on  her  arm;  but  as  he  left  the  gang-plank  he 
freed  himself,  and  moved  a  step  or  two  away  from 
his  companions.  He  had  seen  Charity  at  once,  and 
his  glance  passed  slowly  from  her  to  Harney, 
whose  arm  was  still  about  her.  He  stood  staring 
at  them,  and  trying  to  master  the  senile  quiver  of 
his  lips;  then  he  drew  himself  up  with  the  tremu 
lous  majesty  of  drunkenness,  and  stretched  out  his 
arm. 

"You  whore — you  damn — bare-headed  whore, 
you!"  he  enunciated  slowly. 

There  was  a  scream  of  tipsy  laughter  from  the 
party,  and  Charity  involuntarily  put  her  hands  to 
her  head.  She  remembered  that  her  hat  had  fallen 
from  her  lap  when  she  jumped  up  to  leave  the  stand ; 
and  suddenly  she  had  a  vision  of  herself,  hatless, 
dishevelled,  with  a  man's  arm  about  her,  confront- 


SUMMER 

ing  that  drunken  crew,  headed  by  her  guardian' s, 
pitiable  figure.  The  picture  filled  her  with  shame. 
She  had  known  since  childhood  about  Mr.  Royall's 
"habits" :  had  seen  him,  as  she  went  up  to  bed,  sit 
ting  morosely  in  his  office,  a  bottle  at  his  elbow ;  or 
coming  home,  heavy  and  quarrelsome,  from  his 
business  expeditions  to  Hepburn  or  Springfield ;  but 
the  idea  of  his  associating  himself  publicly  with  a 
band  of  disreputable  girls  and  bar-room  loafers  was 
new  and  dreadful  to  her. 

"Oh "  she  said  in  a  gasp  of  misery;  and 

releasing  herself  from  Harney's  arm  she  went 
straight  up  to  Mr.  Royall. 

"You  come  home  with  me — you  come  right  home 
with  me,"  she  said  in  a  low  stern  voice,  as  if  she 
had  not  heard  his  apostrophe ;  and  one  of  the  girls 
called  out:  "Say,  how  many  fellers  does  she  want?" 

There  was  another  laugh,  followed  by  a  pause  of 
curiosity,  during  which  Mr.  Royall  continued  to 
glare  at  Charity.  At  length  his  twitching  lips  parted. 
"I  said,  'You — damn — whore !'  "  he  repeated  with 
precision,  steadying  himself  on  Julia's  shoulder. 

Laughs  and  jeers  were  beginning  to  spring  up 
from  the  circle  of  people  beyond  their  group;  and 
a  voice  called  out  from  the  gangway:  "Now,  then, 


SUMMER 

step  lively  there — all  aboard!"  The  pressure  of 
approaching  and  departing  passengers  forced  the 
actors  in  the  rapid  scene  apart,  and  pushed  them 
back  into  the  throng.  Charity  found  herself  cling 
ing  to  Hartley's  arm  and  sobbing  desperately.  Mr. 
Royall  had  disappeared,  and  in  the  distance  she 
heard  the  receding  sound  of  Julia's  laugh. 

The  boat,  laden  to  the  taffrail,  was  puffing  away 
on  her  last  trip. 


XI 


AT  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  freckled 
boy  from  Creston  stopped  his  sleepy  horse 
at  the  door  of  the  red  house,  and  Charity  got 
out.  Harney  had  taken  leave  of  her  at  Creston 
River,  charging  the  boy  to  drive  her  home.  Her 
mind  was  still  in  a  fog  of  misery,  and  she  did  not 
remember  very  clearly  what  had  happened,  or  what 
they  said  to  each  other,  during  the  interminable  in 
terval  since  their  departure  from  Nettleton ;  but  the 
secretive  instinct  of  the  animal  in  pain  was  so  strong 
in  her  that  she  had  a  sense  of  relief  when  Harney 
got  out  and  she  drove  on  alone. 

The  full  moon  hung  over  North  Dormer,  whit 
ening  the  mist  that  filled  the  hollows  between  the 
hills  and  floated  transparently  above  the  fields. 
Charity  stood  a  moment  at  the  gate,  looking  out 
into  the  waning  night.  She  watched  the  boy  drive 
off,  his  horse's  head  wagging  heavily  to  and  fro; 
then  she  went  around  to  the  kitchen  door  and  felt 
under  the  mat  for  the  key.  She  found  it,  unlocked 

[154] 


SUMMER 

the  door  and  went  in.  The  kitchen  was  dark,  but 
she  discovered  a  box  of  matches,  lit  a  candle  and 
went  upstairs.  Mr.  Royall's  door,  opposite  hers, 
stood  open  on  his  unlit  room ;  evidently  he  had  not 
come  back.  She  went  into  her  room,  bolted  her 
door  and  began  slowly  to  untie  the  ribbon  about 
her  waist,  and  to  take  off  her  dress.  Under  the 
bed  she  saw  the  paper  bag  in  which  she  had  hidden 
her  new  hat  from  inquisitive  eyes.  .  .  . 

She  lay  for  a  long  time  sleepless  on  her  bed, 
staring  up  at  the  moonlight  on  the  low  ceiling ;  dawn 
was  in  the  sky  when  she  fell  asleep,  and  when  she 
woke  the  sun  was  on  her  face. 

She  dressed  and  went  down  to  the  kitchen. 
Verena  was  there  alone:  she  glanced  at  Charity 
tranquilly,  with  her  old  deaf-looking  eyes.  There 
was  no  sign  of  Mr.  Royall  about  the  house  and 
the  hours  passed  without  his  reappearing.  Charity 
had  gone  up  to  her  room,  and  sat  there  listlessly, 
her  hands  on  her  lap.  Puffs  of  sultry  air  fanned 
her  dimity  window  curtains  and  flies  buzzed  sti- 
flingly  against  the  bluish  panes. 

At  one  o'clock  Verena  hobbled  up  to  see  if  she 
were  not  coming  down  to  dinner ;  but  she  shook  her 

[155] 


SUMMER 

head,  and  the  old  woman  went  away,  saying:  "I'll 
cover  up,  then." 

The  sun  turned  and  left  her  room,  and  Charity 
seated  herself  in  the  window,  gazing  down  the  vil 
lage  street  through  the  half-opened  shutters.  Not 
a  thought  was  in  her  mind ;  it  was  just  a  dark  whirl 
pool  of  crowding  images ;  and  she  watched  the  peo 
ple  passing  along  the  street,  Dan  Targatt's  team 
hauling  a  load  of  pine-trunks  down  to  Hepburn,  the 
sexton's  old  white  horse  grazing  on  the  bank  across 
the  way,  as  if  she  looked  at  these  familiar  sights 
from  the  other  side  of  the  grave. 

She  was  roused  from  her  apathy  by  seeing  Ally 
Hawes  come  out  of  the  Frys'  gate  and  walk  slowly 
toward  the  red  house  with  her  uneven  limping  step. 
At  the  sight  Charity  recovered  her  severed  con 
tact  with  reality.  She  divined  that  Ally  was  com 
ing  to  hear  about  her  day:  no  one  else  was  in 
the  secret  of  the  trip  to  Nettleton,  and  it  had 
flattered  Ally  profoundly  to  be  allowed  to  know  of 
it. 

At  the  thought  of  having  to  see  her,  of  having 
to  meet  her  eyes  and  answer  or  evade  her  ques 
tions,  the  whole  horror  of  the  previous  night's  ad 
venture  rushed  back  upon  Charity.  What  had  been 

[156] 


SUMMER 

a  feverish  nightmare  became  a  cold  and  unescap- 
able  fact.  Poor  Ally,  at  that  moment,  represented 
North  Dormer,  with  all  its  mean  curiosities,  its 
furtive  malice,  its  sham  unconsciousness  of  evil. 
Charity  knew  that,  although  all  relations  with  Julia 
were  supposed  to  be  severed,  the  tender-hearted  Ally 
still  secretly  communicated  with  her ;  and  no  doubt 
Julia  would  exult  in  the  chance  of  retailing  the 
scandal  of  the  wharf.  The  story,  exaggerated  and 
distorted,  was  probably  already  on  its  way  to  North 
Dormer. 

Ally's  dragging  pace  had  not  carried  her  far 
from  the  Frys'  gate  when  she  was  stopped  by  old 
Mrs.  Sollas,  who  was  a  great  talker,  and  spoke  very 
slowly  because  she  had  never  been  able  to  get  used 
to  her  new  teeth  from  Hepburn.  Still,  even  this 
respite  would  not  last  long;  in  another  ten  min 
utes  Ally  would  be  at  the  door,  and  Charity  would 
hear  her  greeting  Verena  in  the  kitchen,  and  then 
calling  up  from  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

Suddenly  it  became  clear  that  flight,  and  instant 
flight,  was  the  only  thing  conceivable.  The  long 
ing  to  escape,  to  get  away  from  familiar  faces,  from 
places  where  she  was  known,  had  always  been 
strong  in  her  in  moments  of  distress.  She  had  a 

[157] 


SUMMER 

childish  belief  in  the  miraculous  power  of  strange 
scenes  and  new  faces  to  transform  her  life  and 
wipe  out  bitter  memories.  But  such  impulses  were 
mere  fleeting  whims  compared  to  the  cold  resolve 
which  now  possessed  her.  She  felt  she  could  not 
remain  an  hour  longer  under  the  roof  of  the  man 
who  had  publicly  dishonoured  her,  and  face  to  face 
with  the  people  who  would  presently  be  gloating 
over  all  the  details  of  her  humiliation. 

Her  passing  pity  for  Mr.  Royall  had  been  swal 
lowed  up  in  loathing:  everything  in  her  recoiled 
from  the  disgraceful  spectacle  of  the  drunken  old 
man  apostrophizing  her-  in  the  presence  of  a  band 
of  loafers  and  street-walkers.  Suddenly,  vividly, 
she  relived  again  the  horrible  moment  when  he  had 
tried  to  force  himself  into  her  room,  and  what  she 
had  before  supposed  to  be  a  mad  aberration  now 
appeared  to  her  as  a  vulgar  incident  in  a  debauched 
and  degraded  life. 

While  these  thoughts  were  hurrying  through  her 
she  had  dragged  out  her  old  canvas  school-bag,  and 
was  thrusting  into  it  a  few  articles  of  clothing  and 
the  little  packet  of  letters  she  had  received  from 
Harney.  From  under  her  pincushion  she  took  the 
library  key,  and  laid  it  in  full  view;  then  she  felt 
[158] 


SUMMER 

at  the  back  of  a  drawer  for  the  blue  brooch  that 
Harney  had  given  her.  She  would  not  have  dared 
to  wear  it  openly  at  North  Dormer,  but  now  she  fas 
tened  it  on  her  bosom  as  if  it  were  a  talisman  to  pro 
tect  her  in  her  flight.  These  preparations  had  taken 
but  a  few  minutes,  and  when  they  were  finished 
Ally  Hawes  was  still  at  the  Frys'  corner  talking 
to  old  Mrs.  Sollas.  .  .  . 

She  had  said  to  herself,  as  she  always  said  in 
moments  of  revolt:  "I'll  go  to  the  Mountain — I'll 
go  back  to  my  own  folks."  She  had  never  really 
meant  it  before;  but  now,  as  she  considered  her 
case,  no  other  course  seemed  open.  She  had  never 
learned  any  trade  that  would  have  given  her  inde 
pendence  in  a  strange  place,  and  she  knew  no  one 
in  the  big  towns  of  the  valley,  where  she  might 
have  hoped  to  find  employment.  Miss  Hatchard 
was  still  away;  but  even  had  she  been  at  North 
Dormer  she  was  the  last  person  to  whom  Charity 
would  have  turned,  since  one  of  the  motives  urging 
her  to  flight  was  the  wish  not  to  see  Lucius  Harney. 
Travelling  back  from  Nettleton,  in  the  crowded 
brightly-lit  train,  all  exchange  of  confidence  between 
them  had  been  impossible;  but  during  their  drive 

[159] 


SUMMER 

from  Hepburn  to  Creston  River  she  had  gathered 
from  Hartley's  snatches  of  consolatory  talk — again 
hampered  by  the  freckled  boy's  presence — that  he 
intended  to  see  her  the  next  day.  At  the  moment 
she  had  found  a  vague  comfort  in  the  assurance; 
but  in  the  desolate  lucidity  of  the  hours  that  fol 
lowed  she  had  come  to  see  the  impossibility  of  meet 
ing  him  again.  Her  dream  of  comradeship  was 
over;  and  the  scene  on  the  wharf — vile  and  dis 
graceful  as  it  had  been — had  after  all  shed  the 
light  of  truth  on  her  minute  of  madness.  It  was 
as  if  her  guardian's  words  had  stripped  her  bare 
in  the  face  of  the  grinning  crowd  and  proclaimed 
to  the  world  the  secret  admonitions  of  her  con 
science. 

She  did  not  think  these  things  out  clearly;  she 
simply  followed  the  blind  propulsion  of  her  wretch 
edness.  She  did  not  want,  ever  again,  to  see  any 
one  she  had  known;  above  all,  she  did  not  want  to 
see  Harney.  .  .  . 

She  climbed  the  hill-path  behind  the  house  and 
struck  through  the  woods  by  a  short-cut  leading  to 
the  Creston  road.  A  lead-coloured  sky  hung  heav 
ily  over  the  fields,  and  in  the  forest  the  motion 
less  air  was  stifling;  but  she  pushed  on,  impatient 
[160] 


SUMMER 

to  reach  the  road  which  was  the  shortest  way  to  the 
Mountain. 

To  do  so,  she  had  to  follow  the  Creston  road  for 
a  mile  or  two,  and  go  within  half  a  mile  of  the 
village;  and  she  walked  quickly,  fearing  to  meet 
Harney.  But  there  was  no  sign  of  him,  and  she 
had  almost  reached  the  branch  road  when  she  saw 
the  flanks  of  a  large  white  tent  projecting  through 
the  trees  by  the  roadside.  She  supposed  that  it 
sheltered  a  travelling  circus  which  had  come  there 
for  the  Fourth;  but  as  she  drew  nearer  she  saw, 
over  the  folded-back  flap,  a  large  sign  bearing  the 
inscription,  "Gospel  Tent."  The  interior  seemed 
to  be  empty;  but  a  young  man  in  a  black  alpaca 
coat,  his  lank  hair  parted  over  a  round  white  face, 
stepped  from  under  the  flap  and  advanced  toward 
her  with  a  smile. 

"Sister,  your  Saviour  knows  everything.  Won't 
you  come  in  and  lay  your  guilt  before  Him?"  he 
asked  insinuatingly,  putting  his  hand  on  her  arm. 

Charity  started  back  and  flushed.  For  a  moment 
she  thought  the  evangelist  must  have  heard  a  report 
of  the  scene  at  Nettleton;  then  she  saw  the  ab 
surdity  of  the  supposition. 

"I  on'y  wish't  I  had  any  to  lay!"  she  retorted, 
11  [161] 


SUMMER 

with  one  of  her  fierce  flashes  of  self -derision;  and 
the  young  man  murmured,  aghast:  "Oh,  Sister, 
don't  speak  blasphemy.  .  .  ." 

But  she  had  jerked  her  arm  out  of  his  hold,  and 
was  running  up  the  branch  road,  trembling  with  the 
fear  of  meeting  a  familiar  face.  Presently  she  was 
out  of  sight  of  the  village,  and  climbing  into 
the  heart  of  the  forest  She  could  not  hope  to  do 
the  fifteen  miles  to  the  Mountain  that  afternoon; 
but  she  knew  of  a  place  half-way  to  Hamblin  where 
she  could  sleep,  and  where  no  one  would  think  of 
looking  for  her.  It  was  a  little  deserted  house 
on  a  slope  in  one  of  the  lonely  rifts  of  the  hills. 
She  had  seen  it  once,  years  before,  when  she  had 
gone  on  a  nutting  expedition  to  the  grove  of  wal 
nuts  below  it  The  party  had  taken  refuge  in  the 
house  from  a  sudden  mountain  storm,  and  she  re 
membered  that  Ben  Sollas,  who  liked  frightening 
girls,  had  told  them  that  it  was  said  to  be  haunted. 

She  was  growing  faint  and  tired,  for  she  had 
eaten  nothing  since  morning,  and  was  not  used 
to  walking  so  far.  Her  head  felt  light  and  she  sat 
down  for  a  moment  by  the  roadside.  As  she  sat 
there  she  heard  the  click  of  a  bicycle-bell,  and 
started  up  to  plunge  back  into  the  forest;  but  be- 


SUMMER 

fore  she  could  move  the  bicycle  had  swept  around 
the  curve  of  the  road,  and  Harney,  jumping  off, 
was  approaching  her  with  outstretched  arms. 

"Charity !    What  on  earth  are  you  doing  here  ?" 

She  stared  as  if  he  were  a  vision,  so  startled  by 
the  unexpectedness  of  his  being  there  that  no  words 
came  to  her. 

"Where  were  you  going?  Had  you  forgotten 
that  I  was  coming?"  he  continued,  trying  to  draw 
her  to  him;  but  she  shrank  from  his  embrace. 

"I  was  going  away — I  don't  want  to  see  you — I 
want  you  should  leave  me  alone,"  she  broke  out 
wildly. 

He  looked  at  her  and  his  face  grew  grave,  as 
though  the  shadow  of  a  premonition  brushed  it. 

"Going  away — from  me,  Charity?" 

"From  everybody.    I  want  you  should  leave  me." 

He  stood  glancing  doubtfully  up  and  down  the 
lonely  forest  road  that  stretched  away  into  sun- 
flecked  distances. 

"Where  were  you  going?" 

"Home." 

"Home— this  way?" 

She  threw  her  head  back  defiantly.     "To  my 
home — up  yonder :  to  the  Mountain." 
[163] 


SUMMER 

As  she  spoke  she  became  aware  of  a  change  in 
his  face.  He  was  no  longer  listening  to  her,  he 
was  only  looking  at  her,  with  the  passionate  ab 
sorbed  expression  she  had  seen  in  his  eyes  after 
they  had  kissed  on  the  stand  at  Nettleton.  He  was 
the  new  Harney  again,  the  Harney  abruptly  re 
vealed  in  that  embrace,  who  seemed  so  penetrated 
with  the  joy  of  her  presence  that  he  was  utterly 
v  careless  of  what  she  was  thinking  or  feeling. 

He  caught  her  hands  with  a  laugh.  "How  do  you 
suppose  I  found  you?"  he  said  gaily.  He  drew 
out  the  little  packet  of  his  letters  and  flourished 
them  before  her  bewildered  eyes. 

"You  dropped  them,  you  imprudent  young  person 
— dropped  them  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  not  far 
from  here;  and  the  young  man  who  is  running 
the  Gospel  tent  picked  them  up  just  as  I  was 
riding  by."  He  drew  back,  holding  her  at  arm's 
length,  and  scrutinizing  her  troubled  face  with 
the  minute  searching  gaze  of  his  short-sighted 
eyes. 

"Did  you  really  think  you  could  run  away  from 
me?  You  see  you  weren't  meant  to,"  he  said;  and 
before  she  could  answer  he  had  kissed  her  again, 
not  vehemently,  but  tenderly,  almost  fraternally, 


SUMMER 

as  if  he  had  guessed  her  confused  pain,  and  wanted 
her  to  know  he  understood  it.  He  wound  his  fin 
gers  through  hers. 

"Come — let's  walk  a  little.  I  want  to  talk  to 
you.  There's  so  much  to  say." 

He  spoke  with  a  boy's  gaiety,  carelessly  and 
confidently,  as  if  nothing  had  happened  that  could 
shame  or  embarrass  them;  and  for  a  moment,  in 
the  sudden  relief  of  her  release  from  lonely  pain, 
she  felt  herself  yielding  to  his  mood.  But  he  had 
turned,  and  was  drawing  her  back  along  the  road 
by  which  she  had  come.  She  stiffened  herself 
and  stopped  short. 

"I  won't  go  back,"  she  said. 

They  looked  at  each  other  a  moment  in  silence; 
then  he  answered  gently:  "Very  well:  let's  go  the 
other  way,  then." 

She  remained  motionless,  gazing  silently  at  the 
ground,  and  he  went  on:  "Isn't  there  a  house  up 
here  somewhere — a  little  abandoned  house — you 
meant  to  show  me  some  day?"  Still  she  made  no 
answer,  and  he  continued,  in  the  same  tone  of 
tender  reassurance:  "Let  us  go  there  now  and  sit 
down  and  talk  quietly."  He  took  one  of  the  hands 
that  hung  by  her  side  and  pressed  his  lips  to  the 


SUMMER 

palm.    "Do  you  suppose  I'm  going  to  let  you  send 
me  away?    Do  you  suppose  I  don't  understand?" 

The  little  old  house — its  wooden  walls  sun- 
bleached  to  a  ghostly  gray — stood  in  an  orchard 
above  the  road.  The  garden  palings  had  fallen, 
but  the  broken  gate  dangled  between  its  posts,  and 
the  path  to  the  house  was  marked  by  rose-bushes 
run  wild  and  hanging  their  small  pale  blossoms 
above  the  crowding  grasses.  Slender  pilasters  and 
an  intricate  fan-light  framed  the  opening  where  the 
door  had  hung;  and  the  door  itself  lay  rotting  in 
the  grass,  with  an  old  apple-tree  fallen  across 
it. 

Inside,  also,  wind  and  weather  had  blanched 
everything  to  the  same  wan  silvery  tint;  the  house 
was  as  dry  and  pure  as  the  interior  of  a  long-empty 
shell.  But  it  must  have  been  exceptionally  well 
built,  for  the  little  rooms  had  kept  something  of 
their  human  aspect :  the  wooden  mantels  with  their 
neat  classic  ornaments  were  in  place,  and  the  cor 
ners  of  one  ceiling  retained  a  light  film  of  plaster 
tracery. 

Harney  had  found  an  old  bench  at  the  back  door 
and  dragged  it  into  the  house.  Charity  sat  on  it, 


SUMMER 

leaning  her  head  against  the  wall  in  a  state  of 
drowsy  lassitude.  He  had  guessed  that  she  was 
hungry  and  thirsty,  and  had  brought  her  some  tab 
lets  of  chocolate  from  his  bicycle-bag,  and  filled  his 
drinking-cup  from  a  spring  in  the  orchard ;  and  now 
he  sat  at  her  feet,  smoking  a  cigarette,  and  looking 
up  at  her  without  speaking.  Outside,  the  afternoon 
shadows  were  lengthening  across  the  grass,  and 
through  the  empty  window-frame  that  faced  her  she 
saw  the  Mountain  thrusting  its  dark  mass  against  a 
sultry  sunset.  It  was  time  to  go. 

She  stood  up,  and  he  sprang  to  his  feet  also, 
and  passed  his  arm  through  hers  with  an  air  of 
authority.  "Now,  Charity,  you're  coming  back 
with  me." 

She  looked  at  him  and  shook  her  head.  "I  ain't 
ever  going  back.  You  don't  know." 

"What  don't  I  know?"  She  was  silent,  and  he 
continued :  "What  happened  on  the  wharf  was  hor 
rible — it's  natural  you  should  feel  as  you  do.  But 
it  doesn't  make  any  real  difference:  you  can't  be 
hurt  by  such  things.  You  must  try  to  forget.  And 
you  must  try  to  understand  that  men  .  .  .  men 
sometimes  .  .  ." 

"I  know  about  men.    That's  why." 
[167] 


SUMMER 

He  coloured  a  little  at  the  retort,  as  though  it 
had  touched  him  in  a  way  she  did  not  sus 
pect. 

"Well,  then  .  .  .  you  must  know  one  has  to  make 
allowances.  .  .  .  He'd  been  drinking.  .  .  ." 

"I  know  all  that,  too.  I've  seen  him  so  before. 
But  he  wouldn't  have  dared  speak  to  me  that  way 
if  he  hadn't  .  .  ." 

"Hadn't  what  ?    What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Hadn't    wanted    me    to    be    like    those    other 

S  girls.  .  .  ."  She  lowered  her  voice  and  looked 
away  from  him.  "So's  't  he  wouldn't  have  to  go 
out.  .  .  ." 

Harney  stared  at  her.  For  a  moment  he  did  not 
seem  to  seize  her  meaning ;  then  his  face  grew  dark. 
"The  damned  hound!  The  villainous  low  hound!" 
His  wrath  blazed  up,  crimsoning  him  to  the  tem 
ples.  "I  never  dreamed — good  God,  it's  too  vile/' 
he  broke  off,  as  if  his  thoughts  recoiled  from  the 
discovery. 

"I  won't  never  go  back  there,"  she  repeated 
doggedly. 

"No *"  he  assented. 

There  was  a  long  interval  of  silence,  during  which 
she  imagined  that  he  was  searching  her  face  for 
[168] 


SUMMER 

more  light  on  what  she  had  revealed  to  him;  and 
a  flush  of  shame  swept  over  her. 

"I  know  the  way  you  must  feel  about  me,"  she 
broke  out,  ".  .  .  telling  you  such  things.  .  .  ." 

But  once  more,  as  she  spoke,  she  became  aware 
that  he  was  no  longer  listening.  He  came  close 
and  caught  her  to  him  as  if  he  were  snatching  her 
from  some  imminent  peril :  his  impetuous  eyes  were  v 
in  hers,  and  she  could  feel  the  hard  beat  of  his 
heart  as  he  held  her  against  it. 

"Kiss  me  again — like  last  night,"  he  said,  push 
ing  her  hair  back  as  if  to  draw  her  whole  face  up 
into  his  kiss. 


XII 


ONE  afternoon   toward  the  end  of  August  a 
group  of  girls  sat  in  a  room  at  Miss  Hatch- 
ard's  in  a  gay  confusion  of  flags,  turkey-red,  blue 
and  white  paper  muslin,  harvest  sheaves  and  illu 
minated  scrolls. 

North  Dormer  was  preparing  for  its  Old  Home 
Week.  That  form  of  sentimental  decentralization 
,was  still  in  its  early  stages,  and,  precedents  being 
few,  and  the  desire  to  set  an  example  contagious, 
the  matter  had  become  a  subject  of  prolonged  and 
passionate  discussion  under  Miss  Hatchard's  roof. 
The  incentive  to  the  celebration  had  come  rather 
from  those  who  had  left  North  Dormer  than  from 
those  who  had  been  obliged  to  stay  there,  and  there 
was  some  difficulty  in  rousing  the  village  to  the 
proper  state  of  enthusiasm.  But  Miss  Hatchard's 
pale  prim  drawing-room  was  the  centre  of  constant 
comings  and  goings  from  Hepburn,  Nettleton, 
Springfield  and  even  more  distant  cities ;  and  when 
ever  a  visitor  arrived  he  was  led  across  the  hall, 


SUMMER 

and  treated  to  a  glimpse  of  the  group  of  girls  deep 
in  their  pretty  preparations. 

"All  the  old  names  ...  all  the  old  names.  .  .  ." 
Miss  Hatchard  would  be  heard,  tapping  across  the 
hall  on  her  crutches.  "Targatt  .  .  .  Sollas  .  .  . 
Fry :  this  is  Miss  Orma  Fry  sewing  the  stars  on  the 
drapery  for  the  organ-loft.  Don't  move,  girls  .  .  . 
and  this  is  Miss  Ally  Hawes,  our  cleverest  needle 
woman  .  .  .  and  Miss  Charity  Royall  making  our 
garlands  of  evergreen.  ...  I  like  the  idea  of  its 
all  being  home-made,  don't  you?  We  haven't  had 
to  call  in  any  foreign  talent :  my  young  cousin 
Lucius  Harney,  the  architect — you  know  he's  up 
here  preparing  a  book  on  Colonial  houses — he's 
taken  the  whole  thing  in  hand  so  cleverly;  but  you 
must  come  and  see  his  sketch  for  the  stage  we're 
going  to  put  up  in  the  Town  Hall." 

One  of  the  first  results  of  the  Old  Home  Week 
agitation  had,  in  fact,  been  the  reappearance  of 
Lucius  Harney  in  the  village  street.  He  had  been 
vaguely  spoken  of  as  being  not  far  off,  but  for  some 
weeks  past  no  one  had  seen  him  at  North  Dormer, 
and  there  was  a  recent  report  of  his  having  left 
Creston  River,  where  he  was  said  to  have  been  stay 
ing,  and  gone  away  from  the  neighbourhood  for 


SUMMER 

good.  Soon  after  Miss  Hatchard's  return,  however, 
he  came  back  to  his  old  quarters  in  her  house,  and 
began  to  take  a  leading  part  in  the  planning  of 
the  festivities.  He  threw  himself  into  the  idea 
with  extraordinary  good-humour,  and  was  so  prodi 
gal  of  sketches,  and  so  inexhaustible  in  devices,  that 
he  gave  an  immediate  impetus  to  the  rather  languid 
movement,  and  infected  the  whole  village  with  his 
enthusiasm. 

"Lucius  has  such  a  feeling  for  the  past  that  he  has 
roused  us  all  to  a  sense  of  our  privileges,"  Miss 
Hatchard  would  say,  lingering  on  the  last  word, 
which  was  a  favourite  one.  And  before  leading  her 
visitor  back  to  the  drawing-room  she  would  repeat, 
for  the  hundredth  time,  that  she  supposed  he 
thought  it  very  bold  of  little  North  Dormer  to  start 
up  and  have  a  Home  Week  of  its  own,  when  so 
many  bigger  places  hadn't  thought  of  it  yet;  but 
that,  after  all,  Associations  counted  more  than  the 
size  of  the  population,  didn't  they?  And  of  course 
North  Dormer  was  so  full  of  Associations  .  .  .  his 
toric,  literary  (here  a  filial  sigh  for  Honor ius)  and 
ecclesiastical  ...  he  knew  about  the  old  pewter 
communion  service  imported  from  England  in  1769, 
she  supposed?  And  it  was  so  important,  in  a 


SUMMER 

wealthy  materialistic  age,  to  set  the  example  of  re 
verting  to  the  old  ideals,  the  family  and  the 
homestead,  and  so  on.  This  peroration  usually 
carried  her  half-way  back  across  the  hall,  leav 
ing  the  girls  to  return  to  their  interrupted  activ 
ities. 

The  day  on  which  Charity  Royall  was  weaving 
hemlock  garlands  for  the  procession  was  the  last 
before  the  celebration.  When  Miss  Hatchard  called 
upon  the  North  Dormer  maidenhood  to  collaborate 
in  the  festal  preparations  Charity  had  at  first  held 
aloof;  but  it  had  been  made  clear  to  her  that  her 
non-appearance  might  excite  conjecture,  and,  re 
luctantly,  she  had  joined  the  other  workers.  The 
girls,  at  first  shy  and  embarrassed,  and  puzzled  as  to 
the  exact  nature  of  the  projected  commemoration, 
had  soon  become  interested  in  the  amusing  details 
of  their  task,  and  excited  by  the  notice  they  re 
ceived.  They  would  not  for  the  world  have  missed 
their  afternoons  at  Miss  Hatchard's,  and,  while 
they  cut  out  and  sewed  and  draped  and  pasted, 
their  tongues  kept  up  such  an  accompaniment  to  the 
sewing-machine  that  Charity's  silence  sheltered  it 
self  unperceived  under  their  chatter. 

In  spirit  she  was  still  almost  unconscious  of  the 

[173] 


SUMMER 

pleasant  stir  about  her.  Since  her  return  to  the 
red  house,  on  the  evening  of  the  day  when  Harney 
had  overtaken  her  on  her  way  to  the  Mountain, 
she  had  lived  at  North  Dormer  as  if  she  were  sus 
pended  in  the  void.  She  had  come  back  there  be 
cause  Harney,  after  appearing  to  agree  to  the  im 
possibility  of  her  doing  so,  had  ended  by  persuad 
ing  her  that  any  other  course  would  be  madness. 
She  had  nothing  further  to  fear  from  Mr.  Royall. 
Of  this  she  had  declared  herself  sure,  though  she 
had  failed  to  add,  in  his  exoneration,  that  he  had 
twice  offered  to  make  her  his  wife.  Her  hatred  of 
him  made  it  impossible,  at  the  moment,  for  her  to 
say  anything  that  might  partly  excuse  him  in  Har 
ney 's  eyes. 

Harney,  however,  once  satisfied  of  her  security, 
had  found  plenty  of  reasons  for  urging  her  to  re 
turn.  The  first,  and  the  most  unanswerable,  was 
that  she  had  nowhere  else  to  go.  But  the  one  on 
which  he  laid  the  greatest  stress  was  that  flight 
would  be  equivalent  to  avowal.  If — as  was  almost 
inevitable — rumours  of  the  scandalous  scene  at  Net- 
tleton  should  reach  North  Dormer,  how  else  would 
her  disappearance  be  interpreted?  Her  guardian 
had  publicly  taken  away  her  character,  and  she  im- 
[174] 


SUMMER 

mediately  vanished  from  his  house.  Seekers  after 
motives  could  hardly  fail  to  draw  an  unkind  con 
clusion.  But  if  she  came  back  at  once,  and  was  seen 
leading  her  usual  life,  the  incident  was  reduced  to 
its  true  proportions,  as  the  outbreak  of  a  drunken 
old  man  furious  at  being  surprised  in  disreputable 
company.  People  would  say  that  Mr.  Royall  had 
insulted  his  ward  to  justify  himself,  and  the  sordid 
tale  would  fall  into  its  place  in  the  chronicle  of  his 
obscure  debaucheries. 

Charity  saw  the  force  of  the  argument;  but  if 
she  acquiesced  it  was  not  so  much  because  of  that 
as  because  it  was  Harney's  wish.  Since  that  eve 
ning  in  the  deserted  house  she  could  imagine  no 
reason  for  doing  or  not  doing  anything  except  the 
fact  that  Harney  wished  or  did  not  wish  it.  All 
her  tossing  contradictory  impulses  were  merged  in 
a  fatalistic  acceptance  of  his  will.  It  was  not  that 
she  felt  in  him  any  ascendency  of  character — there 
were  moments  already  when  she  knew  she  was  the 
stronger — but  that  all  the  rest  of  life  had  become 
a  mere  cloudy  rim  about  the  central  glory  of  their 
passion.  Whenever  she  stopped  thinking  about  that 
for  a  moment  she  felt  as  she  sometimes  did  after 
lying  on  the  grass  and  staring  up  too  long  at  the 

[175] 


SUMMER 

sky;  her  eyes  were  so  full  of  light  that  everything 
about  her  was  a  blur. 

Each  time  that  Miss  Hatchard,  in  the  course  of 
her  periodical  incursions  into  the  work-room, 
dropped  an  allusion  to  her  young  cousin,  the  archi 
tect,  the  effect  was  the  same  on  Charity.  The  hem 
lock  garland  she  was  wearing  fell  to  her  knees  and 
she  sat  in  a  kind  of  trance.  It  was  so  manifestly 
absurd  that  Miss  Hatchard  should  talk  of  Harney 
in  that  familiar  possessive  way,  as  if  she  had  any 
claim  on  him,  or  knew  anything  about  him.  She, 
Charity  Royall,  was  the  only  being  on  earth  who 
really  knew  him,  knew  him  from  the  soles  of  his 
feet  to  the  rumpled  crest  of  his  hair,  knew  the  shift 
ing  lights  in  his  eyes,  and  the  inflexions  of  his  voice, 
and  the  things  he  liked  and  disliked,  and  everything 
there  was  to  know  about  him,  as  minutely  and  yet 
unconsciously  as  a  child  knows  the  walls  of  the 
room  it  wakes  up  in  every  morning.  It  was  this 
fact,  which  nobody  about  her  guessed,  or  would 
have  understood,  that  made  her  life  something  apart 
and  inviolable,  as  if  nothing  had  any  power  to  hurt 
or  disturb  her  as  long  as  her  secret  was  safe. 

The  room  in  which  the  girls  sat  was  the  one  which 
had  been  Harney's  bedroom.  He  had  been  sent  up- 


SUMMER 

stairs,  to  make  room  for  the  Home  Week  workers ; 
but  the  furniture  had  not  been  moved,  and  as  Char 
ity  sat  there  she  had  perpetually  before  her  the 
vision  she  had  looked  in  on  from  the  midnight  gar 
den.  The  table  at  which  Harney  had  sat  was  the 
one  about  which  the  girls  were  gathered;  and  her 
own  seat  was  near  the  bed  on  which  she  had  seen 
him  lying.  Sometimes,  when  the  others  were  not 
looking,  she  bent  over  as  if  to  pick  up  something, 
and  laid  her  cheek  for  a  moment  against  the  pillow. 

Toward  sunset  the  girls  disbanded.  Their  work 
was  done,  and  the  next  morning  at  daylight  the 
draperies  and  garlands  were  to  be  nailed  up,  and 
the  illuminated  scrolls  put  in  place  in  the  Town 
Hall.  The  first  guests  were  to  drive  over  from 
Hepburn  in  time  for  the  midday  banquet  under  a 
tent  in  Miss  Hatchard's  field;  and  after  that  the 
ceremonies  were  to  begin.  Miss  Hatchard,  pale 
with  fatigue  and  excitement,  thanked  her  young 
assistants,  and  stood  in  the  porch,  leaning  on  her 
crutches  and  waving  a  farewell  as  she  watched  them 
troop  away  down  the  street. 

Charity  had  slipped  off  among  the  first;  but  at 
the  gate  she  heard  Ally  Hawes  calling  after  her,  and 
reluctantly  turned. 

12  [177] 


SUMMER 

"Will  you  come  over  now  and  try  on  your  dress  ?" 
Ally  asked,  looking  at  her  with  wistful  admira 
tion.  "I  want  to  be  sure  the  sleeves  don't  ruck  up 
the  same  as  they  did  yesterday." 

Charity  gazed  at  her  with  dazzled  eyes.  "Oh, 
it's  lovely,"  she  said,  and  hastened  away  without 
listening  to  Ally's  protest.  She  wanted  her  dress 
to  be  as  pretty  as  the  other  girls' — wanted  it,  in 
fact,  to  outshine  the  rest,  since  she  was  to  take  part 
in  the  "exercises" — but  she  had  no  time  just  then 
to  fix  her  mind  on  such  matters.  ... 

She  sped  up  the  street  to  the  library,  of  which  she 
had  the  key  about  her  neck.  From  the  passage  at 
the  back  she  dragged  forth  a*  bicycle,  and  guided 
it  to  the  edge  of  the  street.  She  looked  about  to 
see  if  any  of  the  girls  were  approaching;  but  they 
had  drifted  away  together  toward  the  Town  Hall, 
and  she  sprang  into  the  saddle  and  turned  toward 
the  Creston  road.  There  was  an  almost  continual 
descent  to  Creston,  and  with  her  feet  against  the 
pedals  she  floated  through  the  still  evening  air  like 
one  of  the  hawks  she  had  often  watched  slanting 
downward  on  motionless  wings.  Twenty  minutes 
from  the  time  when  she  had  left  Miss  Hatchard's 
door  she  was  turning  up  the  wood-road  on  which 


SUMMER 

Harney  had  overtaken  her  on  the  day  of  her  flight ; 
and  a  few  minutes  afterward  she  had  jumped  from 
her  bicycle  at  the  gate  of  the  deserted  house. 

In  the  gold-powdered  sunset  it  looked  more  than 
ever  like  some  frail  shell  dried  and  washed  by 
many  seasons ;  but  at  the  back,  whither  Charity  ad 
vanced,  drawing  her  bicycle  after  her,  there  were 
signs  of  recent  habitation.  A  rough  door  made 
of  boards  hung  in  the  kitchen  doorway,  and  push 
ing  it  open  she  entered  a  room  furnished  in  primi 
tive  camping  fashion.  In  the  window  was  a  table, 
also  made  of  boards,  with  an  earthenware  jar 
holding  a  big  bunch  of  wild  asters,  two  canvas  chairs 
stood  near  by,  and  -in  one  corner  was  a  mattress 
with  a  Mexican  blanket  over  it. 

The  room  was  empty,  and  leaning  her  bicycle 
against  the  house  Charity  clambered  up  the  slope 
and  sat  down  on  a  rock  under  an  old  apple-tree. 
The  air  was  perfectly  still,  and  from  where  she 
sat  she  would  be  able  to  hear  the  tinkle  of  a  bicycle- 
bell  a  long  way  down  the  road.  .  .  . 

She  was  always  glad  when  she  got  to  the  little 
house  before  Harney.  She  liked  to  have  time  to 
take  in  every  detail  of  its  secret  sweetness — the 
shadows  of  the  apple-trees  swaying  on  the  grass, 


SUMMER 

the  old  walnuts  rounding  their  domes  below  the 
road,  the  meadows  sloping  westward  in  the  after 
noon  light — before  his  first  kiss  blotted  it  all  out. 
Everything  unrelated  to  the  hours  spent  in  that 
tranquil  place  was  as  faint  as  the  remembrance 
of  a  dream.  The  only  reality  was  the  wondrous  un 
folding  of  her  new  self,  the  reaching  out  to  the 
light  of  all  her  contracted  tendrils.  She  had  lived 
all  her  life  among  people  whose  sensibilities  seemed 
to  have  withered  for  lack  of  use;  and  more  won 
derful,  at  first,  than  Harney's  endearments  were 
the  words  that  were  a  part  of  them.  She  had  always 
thought  of  love  as  something  confused  and  furtive, 
and  he  made  it  as  bright  and  open  as  the  sum 
mer  air. 

On  the  morrow  of  the  day  when  she  had  shown 
him  the  way  to  the  deserted  house  he  had  packed 
up  and  left  Creston  River  for  Boston;  but  at  the 
first  station  he  had  jumped  off  the  train  with  a 
hand-bag  and  scrambled  up  into  the  hills.  For  two 
golden  rainless  August  weeks  he  had  camped  in  the 
house,  getting  eggs  and  milk  from  the  solitary  farm 
in  the  valley,  where  no  one  knew  him,  and  doing 
his  cooking  over  a  spirit-lamp.  He  got  up  every 
day  with  the  sun,  took  a  plunge  in  a  brown  pool 
[180] 


SUMMER 

he  knew  of,  and  spent  long  hours  lying  in  the 
scented  hemlock-woods  above  the  house,  or  wan 
dering  along  the  yoke  of  the  Eagle  Ridge,  far  above 
the  misty  blue  valleys  that  swept  away  east  and  west 
between  the  endless  hills.  And  in  the  afternoon 
Chanty  came  to  him. 

With  part  of  what  was  left  of  her  savings  she 
had  hired  a  bicycle  for  a  month,  and  every  day 
after  dinner,  as  soon  as  her  guardian  started  to 
his  office,  she  hurried  to  the  library,  got  out  her 
bicycle,  and  flew  down  the  Creston  road.  She 
knew  that  Mr.  Royall,  like  everyone  else  in  North 
Dormer,  was  perfectly  aware  of  her  acquisition: 
possibly  he,  as  well  as  the  rest  of  the  village, 
knew  what  use  she  made  of  it.  She  did  not  care: 
she  felt  him  to  be  so  powerless  that  if  he  had 
questioned  her  she  would  probably  have  told  him 
the  truth.  But  they  had  never  spoken  to  each  other 
since  the  night  on  the  wharf  at  Nettleton.  He 
had  returned  to  North  Dormer  only  on  the  third 
day  after  that  encounter,  arriving  just  as  Charity 
and  Verena  were  sitting  down  to  supper.  He  had 
drawn  up  his  chair,  taken  his  napkin  from  the  side 
board  drawer,  pulled  it  out  of  its  ring,  and  seated 
himself  as  unconcernedly  as  if  he  had  come  in  from 
[181] 


SUMMER 

his  usual  afternoon  session  at  Carrick  Fry's;  and  the 
long  habit  of  the  household  made  it  seem  almost 
natural  that  Charity  should  not  so  much  as  raise 
her  eyes  when  he  entered.  She  had  simply  let  him 
understand  that  her  silence  was  not  accidental  by 
leaving  the  table  while  he  was  still  eating,  and 
going  up  without  a  word  to  shut  herself  into  her 
room.  After  that  he  formed  the  habit  of  talking 
loudly  and  genially  to  Verena  whenever  Charity 
was  in  the  room;  but  otherwise  there  was  no  ap 
parent  change  in  their  relations. 

She  did  not  think  connectedly  of  these  things 
while  she  sat  waiting  for  Harney,  but  they  re 
mained  in  her  mind  as  a  sullen  background  against 
which  her  short  hours  with  him  flamed  out  like  for 
est  fires.  Nothing  else  mattered,  neither  the  good 
nor  the  bad,  or  what  might  have  seemed  so  before 
she  knew  him.  He  had  caught  her  up  and  carried 
her  away  into  a  new  world,  from  wrhich,  at  stated 
hours,  the  ghost  of  her  came  back  to  perform  cer 
tain  customary  acts,  but  all  so  thinly  and  insub- 
stantially  that  she  sometimes  wondered  that  the  peo 
ple  she  went  about  among  could  see  her.  .  .  . 

jTBehind  the  swarthy  Mountain  the  sun  had  gone 
down  in  waveless  gold.     From  a  pasture  up  the 


SUMMER 

slope  a  tinkle  of  cow-bells  sounded;  a  puff  of  smoke 
hung  over  the  farm  in  the  valley,  trailed  on  the  pure 
air  and  was  gone.  For  a  few  minutes,  in  the  clear 
light  that  is  all  shadow,  fields  and  woods  were  out 
lined  with  an  unreal  precision;  then  the  twilight 
blotted  them  out,  and  the  little  house  turned  gray 
and  spectral  under  its  wizened  apple-branches.^/ 

Charity's  heart  contracted.  The  first  fall  of  night 
after  a  day  of  radiance  often  gave  her  a  sense  of 
hidden  menace:  it  was  like  looking  out  over  the 
world  as  it  would  be  when  love  had  gone  from  it. 
She  wondered  if  some  day  she  would  sit  in  that 
same  place  and  watch  in  vain  for  her  lover.  .  .  . 

His  bicycle-bell  sounded  down  the  lane,  and  in 
a  minute  she  was  at  the  gate  and  his  eyes  were 
laughing  in  hers.  They  walked  back  through  the 
long  grass,  and  pushed  open  the  door  behind  the 
house.  The  room  at  first  seemed  quite  dark  and 
they  had  to  grope  their  way  in  hand  in  hand. 
Through  the  window-frame  the  sky  looked  light  by 
contrast,  and  above  the  black  mass  of  asters 
in  the  earthern  jar  one  white  star  glimmered  like 
a  moth. 

"There  was  such  a  lot  to  do  at  the  last  minute," 
Harney  was  explaining,  "and  I  had  to  drive  down 


SUMMER 

to  Creston  to  meet  someone  who  has  come  to  stay 
with  my  cousin  for  the  show." 

He  had  his  arms  about  her,  and  his  kisses  were  in 
her  hair  and  on  her  lips.  Under  his  touch  things 
deep  down  in  her  struggled  to  the  light  and  sprang 
up  like  flowers  in  sunshine.  She  twisted  her  fingers 
into  his,  and  they  sat  down  side  by  side  on  the 
improvised  couch.  She  hardly  heard  his  excuses 
for  being  late:  in  his  absence  a  thousand  doubts 
tormented  her,  but  as  soon  as  he  appeared  she  ceased 
to  wonder  where  he  had  come  from,  what  had  de 
layed  him,  who  had  kept  him  from  her.  It  seemed 
as  if  the  places  he  had  been  in,  and  the  people  he 
had  been  with,  must  cease  to  exist  when  he  left 
them,  just  as  her  own  life  was  suspended  in  his 
absence. 

He  continued,  now,  to  talk  to  her  volubly  and 
gaily,  deploring  his  lateness,  grumbling  at  the  de 
mands  on  his  time,  and  good-humouredly  mimick 
ing  Miss  Hatchard's  benevolent  agitation.  "She 
hurried  off  Miles  to  ask  Mr.  Royall  to  speak  at  the 
Town  Hall  tomorrow:  I  didn't  know  till  it  was 
done."  Charity  was  silent,  and  he  added:  "After 
all,  perhaps  it's  just  as  well.  No  one  else  could 
have  done  it." 


SUMMER 

Charity  made  no  answer:  She  did  not  care  what 
part  her  guardian  played  in  the  morrow's  cere 
monies.  Like  all  the  other  figures  peopling  her 
meagre  world  he  had  grown  non-existent  to  her. 
She  had  even  put  off  hating  him. 

"Tomorrow  I  shall  only  see  you  from  far  off," 
Harney  continued.  "But  in  the  evening  there'll 
be  the  dance  in  the  Town  Hall.  Do  you  want  me 
to  promise  not  to  dance  with  any  other  girl?" 

Any  other  girl?  Were  there  any  others?  She 
had  forgotten  even  that  peril,  so  enclosed  did  he 
and  she  seem  in  their  secret  world.  Her  heart  gave 
a  frightened  jerk. 

"Yes,  promise/' 

He  laughed  and  took  her  in  his  arms.  "You 
goose — not  even  if  they're  hideous?" 

He  pushed  the  hair  from  her  forehead,  bending 
her  face  back,  as  his  way  was,  and  leaning  over  so 
that  his  head  loomed  black  between  her  eyes  and 
the  paleness  of  the  sky,  in  which  the  white  star 
floated  .  .  . 

Side  by  side  they  sped  back  along  the  dark  wood- 
road  to  the  village.  A  late  moon  was  rising,  full 
orbed  and  fiery,  turning  the  mountain  ranges  from 


SUMMER 

fluid  gray  to  a  massive  blackness,  and  making  the 
upper  sky  so  light  that  the  stars  looked  as  faint  as 
their  own  reflections  in  water.  At  the  edge  of  the 
wood,  half  a  mile  from  North  Dormer,  Harney 
jumped  from  his  bicycle,  took  Charity  in  his  arms 
for  a  last  kiss,  and  then  waited  while  she  went  on 
alone. 

They  were  later  than  usual,  and  instead  of  tak 
ing  the  bicycle  to  the  library  she  propped  it  against 
the  back  of  the  wood-shed  and  entered  the  kitchen 
of  the  red  house.  Verena  sat  there  alone;  when 
Charity  came  in  she  looked  at  her  with  mild  im 
penetrable  eyes  and  then  took  a  plate  and  a  glass 
of  milk  from  the  shelf  and  set  them  silently  on  the 
table.  Charity  nodded  her  thanks,  and  sitting  down, 
fell  hungrily  upon  her  piece  of  pie  and  emptied  the 
glass.  Her  face  burned  with  her  quick  flight 
through  the  night,  and  her  eyes  were  dazzled  by 
the  twinkle  of  the  kitchen  lamp.  She  felt  like  a 
night-bird  suddenly  caught  and  caged. 

"He  ain't  come  back  since  supper,"  Verena  said. 
"He's  down  to  the  Hall." 

Charity  took  no  notice.  Her  soul  was  still  wing 
ing  through  the  forest.  She  washed  her  plate  and 
tumbler,  and  then  felt  her  way  up  the  dark  stairs. 
[186] 


SUMMER 

When  she  opened  her  door  a  wonder  arrested 
her.  Before  going  out  she  had  closed  her  shutters 
against  the  af ternon  heat,  but  they  had  swung  partly 
open,  and  a  bar  of  moonlight,  crossing  the  room, 
rested  on  her  bed  and  showed  a  dress  of  China  silk 
laid  out  on  it  in  virgin  whiteness.  Chanty  had 
spent  more  than  she  could  afford  on  the  dress,  which 
was  to  surpass  those  of  all  the  other  girls ;  she  had 
wanted  to  let  North  Dormer  sec  that  she  was  wor 
thy  of  Harney's  admiration.  Above  the  dress,  fold 
ed  on  the  pillow,  was  the  white  veil  which  the  young 
women  who  took  part  in  the  exercises  were  to  wear 
under  a  wreath  of  asters ;  and  beside  the  veil  a  pair 
of  slim  white  satin  shoes  that  Ally  had  produced 
from  an  old  trunk  in  whidi  she  stored  mysterious 
treasures. 

Charity  stood  gazing  at  all  the  outspread  white 
ness.  It  recalled  a  vision  that  had  come  to  her  in 
the  night  after  her  first  meeting  with  Harney.  She 
no  longer  had  such  visions  .  .  .  warmer  splendours 
had  displaced  them  .  .  .  but  it  was  stupid  of  Ally 
to  have  paraded  all  those  white  things  on  her  bed, 
exactly  as  Hattie  Targatt's  wedding  dress  from 
Springfield  had  been  spread  out  for  the  neighbours 
to  see  when  she  married  Tom  Fry.  .  .  . 

[187] 


SUMMER 

Charity  took  up  the  satin  shoes  and  looked  at  them 
curiously.  By  day,  no  doubt,  they  would  appear 
a  little  worn,  but  in  the  moonlight  they  seemed 
carved  of  ivory.  She  sat  down  on  the  floor  to  try 
them  on,  and  they  fitted  her  perfectly,  though  when 
she  stood  up  she  lurched  a  little  on  the  high  heels. 
She  looked  down  at  her  feet,  which  the  graceful 
mould  of  the  slippers  had  marvellously  arched  and 
narrowed.  She  had  never  seen  such  shoes  before, 
even  in  the  shop-windows  at  Nettleton  .  .  .  never, 
except  .  .  .  yes,  once,  she  had  noticed  a  pair  of  the 
same  shape  on  Annabel  Balch. 

A  blush  of  mortification  swept  over  her.  Ally 
sometimes  sewed  for  Miss  Balch  when  that  bril 
liant  being  descended  on  North  Dormer,  and  no 
doubt  she  picked  up  presents  of  cast-off  clothing :  the 
treasures  in  the  mysterious  trunk  all  came  from  the 
people  she  worked  for ;  there  could  be  no  doubt  that 
the  white  slippers  were  Annabel  Balch's.  .  .  . 

As  she  stood  there,  staring  down  moodily  at  her 
feet,  she  heard  the  triple  click-click-click  of  a  bicycle- 
bell  under  her  window.  It  was  Harney's  secret 
signal  as  he  passed  on  his  way  home.  She  stumbled 
to  the  window  on  her  high  heels,  flung  open  the 
shutters  and  leaned  out.  He  waved  to  her  and  sped 
[188] 


SUMMER 

by,  his  black  shadow  dancing  merrily  ahead  of  him 
down  the  empty  moonlit  road ;  and  she  leaned  there 
watching  him  till  he  vanished  under  the  Hatchard 
spruces. 


XIII 

THE  Town  Hall  was  crowded  and  exceed 
ingly  hot.  As  Charity  marched  into  it 
third  in  the  white  muslin  file  headed  by  Orma 
Fry,  she  was  conscious  mainly  of  the  brilliant  ef 
fect  of  the  wreathed  columns  framing  the  green- 
carpeted  stage  toward  which  she  was  moving;  and 
of  the  unfamiliar  faces  turning  from  the  front  rows 
to  watch  the  advance  of  the  procession. 

But  it  was  all  a  bewildering  blur  of  eyes  and 
colours  till  she  found  herself  standing  at  the  back 
of  the  stage,  her  great  bunch  of  asters  and  golden- 
rod  held  well  in  front  of  her,  and  answering  the 
nervous  glance  of  Lambert  Sollas,  the  organist  from 
Mr.  Miles' s  church,  who  had  come  up  from  Net- 
tleton  to  play  the  harmonium  and  sat  behind  it, 
his  conductor's  eye  running  over  the  fluttered  girls. 

A  moment  later  Mr.  Miles,  pink  and  twinkling, 

emerged  from  the  background,  as  if  buoyed  up  on 

his  broad  white  gown,  and  briskly  dominated  the 

bowed  heads  in  the  front  rows.     He  prayed  ener- 

[190] 


SUMMER 

getically  and  briefly  and  then  retired,  and  a  fierce 
nod  from  Lambert  Sollas  warned  the  girls  that 
they  were  to  follow  at  once  with  "Home,  Sweet 
Home."  It  was  a  joy  to  Charity  to  sing :  it  seemed 
as  though,  for  the  first  time,  her  secret  rapture 
might  burst  from  her  and  flash  its  defiance  at  the 
world.  All  the  glow  in  her  blood,  the  breath  of 
the  summer  earth,  the  rustle  of  the  forest,  the  fresh 
call  of  birds  at  sunrise,  and  the  brooding  midday 
languors,  seemed  to  pass  into  her  untrained  voice, 
lifted  and  led  by  the  sustaining  chorus. 

And  then  suddenly  the  song  was  over,  and  after 
an  uncertain  pause,  during  which  Miss  Hatchard's 
pearl-grey  gloves  started  a  furtive  signalling  down 
the  hall,  Mr.  Royall,  emerging  in  turn,  ascended 
the  steps  of  the  stage  and  appeared  behind  the 
flower-wreathed  desk.  He  passed  close  to  Charity, 
and  she  noticed  that  his  gravely  set  face  wore  the 
look  of  majesty  that  used  to  awe  and  fascinate  her 
childhood.  His  frock-coat  had  been  carefully 
brushed  and  ironed,  and  the  ends  of  his  narrow 
black  tie  were  so  nearly  even  that  the  tying  must 
have  cost  him  a  protracted  struggle.  His  appear 
ance  struck  her  all  the  more  because  it  was  the  first 
time  she  had  looked  him  full  in  the  face  since  the 


SUMMER 

night  at  Nettleton,  and  nothing  in  his  grave  and  im 
pressive  demeanour  revealed  a  trace  of  the  lam 
entable  figure  on  the  wharf. 

He  stood  a  moment  behind  the  desk,  resting  his 
finger-tips  against  it,  and  bending  slightly  toward 
his  audience;  then  he  straightened  himself  and  be 
gan. 

At  first  she  paid  no  heed  to  what  he  was  saying : 
only  fragments  of  sentences,  sonorous  quotations, 
allusions  to  illustrious  men,  including  the  obligatory 
tribute  to  Honorius  Hatchard,  drifted  past  her  in 
attentive  ears.  She  was  trying  to  discover  Harney 
among  the  notable  people  in  the  front  row ;  but  he 
was  nowhere  near  Miss  Hatchard,  who,  crowned 
by  a  pearl-grey  hat  that  matched  her  gloves,  sat 
just  below  the  desk,  supported  by  Mrs.  Miles  and 
an  important-looking  unknown  lady.  Charity  was 
near  one  end  of  the  stage,  and  from  where  she  sat 
the  other  end  of  the  first  row  of  seats  was  cut  off 
by  the  screen  of  foliage  masking  the  harmonium. 
The  effort  to  see  Harney  around  the  corner  of  the 
screen,  or  through  its  interstices,  made  her  uncon 
scious  of  everything  else;  but  the  effort  was  unsuc 
cessful,  and  gradually  she  found  her  attention  ar 
rested  by  her  guardian's  discourse. 


SUMMER 

She  had  never  heard  him  speak  in  public  before, 
but  she  was  familiar  with  the  rolling  music  of  his 
voice  when  he  read  aloud,  or  held  forth  to  the 
selectmen  about  the  stove  at  Carrick  Fry's.  Today 
his  inflections  were  richer  and  graver  than  she  had 
ever  known  them :  he  spoke  slowly,  with  pauses 
that  seemed  to  invite  his  hearers  to  silent  participa 
tion  in  his  thought;  and  Charity  perceived  a  light 
of  response  in  their  faces. 

He  wras  nearing  the  end  of  his  address  .  .  . 
"Most  of  you,"  he  said,  "most  of  you  who  have  re 
turned  here  today,  to  take  contact  with  this  little 
place  for  a  brief  hour,  have  come  only  on  a  pious 
pilgrimage,  and  will  go  back  presently  to  busy  cities 
and  lives  full  of  larger  duties.  But  that  is  not  the 
only  way  of  coming  back  to  North  Dormer.  Some 
of  us,  who  went  out  from  here  in  our  youth  .  .  . 
went  out,  like  you,  to  busy  cities  and  larger  duties 
.  .  .  have  come  back  in  another  way — come  back 
for  good.  I  am  one  of  those,  as  many  of  you 
know.  .  .  ."  He  paused,  and  there  was  a  sense 
of  suspense  in  the  listening  hall.  "My  history  is 
without  interest,  but  it  has  its  lesson:  not  so  much 
for  those  of  you  who  have  already  made  your  lives 
in  other  places,  as  for  the  young  men  who  are 
13  [193] 


SUMMER 

perhaps  planning  even  now  to  leave  these  quiet  hills 
and  go  down  into  the  struggle.  Things  they  cannot 
foresee  may  send  some  of  those  young  men  back 
some  day  to  the  little  township  and  the  old  home 
stead:  they  may  come  back  for  good.  .  .  ."  He 
looked  about  him,  and  repeated  gravely :  "For  good . 
There's  the  point  I  want  to  make  .  .  .  North  Dor 
mer  is  a  poor  little  place,  almost  lost  in  a  mighty 
landscape :  perhaps,  by  this  time,  it  might  have  been 
a  bigger  place,  and  more  in  scale  with  the  landscape, 
if  those  who  had  to  come  back  had  come  with 
that  feeling  in  their  minds — that  they  wanted  to 
come  back  for  good  .  .  .  and  not  for  bad  ...  or 
just  for  indifference.  .  .  . 

"Gentlemen,  let  us  look  at  things  as  they  are. 
Some  of  us  have  come  back  to  our  native  town  be 
cause  we'd  failed  to  get  on  elsewhere.  One  way 
or  other,  things  had  gone  wrong  with  us  ... 
what  we'd  dreamed  of  hadn't  come  true.  But  the 
fact  that  we  had  failed  elsewhere  is  no  reason  why 
we  should  fail  here.  Our  very  experiments  in  larger 
places,  even  if  they  were  unsuccessful,  ought  to 
have  helped  us  to  make  North  Dormer  a  larger 
place  .  .  .  and  you  young  men  who  are  preparing 
even  now  to  follow  the  call  of  ambition,  and  turn 
[194] 


SUMMER 

your  back  on  the  old  homes — well,  let  me  say  this 
to  you,  that  if  ever  you  do  come  back  to  them  it's 
worth  while  to  come  back  to  them  for  their  good. 
.  .  .  And  to  do  that,  you  must  keep  on  loving 
them  while  you're  away  from  them;  and  even  if 
you  come  back  against  your  will — and  thinking  it's 
all  a  bitter  mistake  of  Fate  or  Providence — you 
must  try  to  make  the  best  of  it,  and  to  make  the 
best  of  your  old  town;  and  after  a  while — well, 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  give  you  my  recipe  for 
what  it's  worth;  after  a  while,  I  believe  you'll  be 
able  to  say,  as  I  can  say  today:  Tm  glad  I'm  here/ 
Believe  me,  all  of  you,  the  best  way  to  help  the 
places  we  live  in  is  to  be  glad  we  live  there." 

He  stopped,  and  a  murmur  of  emotion  and  sur 
prise  ran  through  the  audience.  It  was  not  in  the 
least  what  they  had  expected,  but  it  moved  them 
more  than  what  they  had  expected  would  have 
moved  them.  "Hear,  hear!"  a  voice  cried  out  in 
the  middle  of  the  hall.  An  outburst  of  cheers 
caught  up  the  cry,  and  as  they  subsided  Charity 
heard  Mr.  Miles  saying  to  someone  near  him: 
"That  was  a  man  talking "  He  wiped  his  spec 
tacles. 

Mr.  Royall  had  stepped  back  from  the  desk,  and 

[195] 


SUMMER 

taken  his  seat  in  the  row  of  chairs  in  front  of  the 
harmonium.  A  dapper  white-haired  gentleman — a 
distant  Hatchard — succeeded  him  behind  the  golden- 
rod,  and  began  to  say  beautiful  things  about  the  old 
oaken  bucket,  patient  white-haired  mothers,  and 
where  the  boys  used  to  go  nutting  .  .  .  and  Charity 
began  again  to  search  for  Harney.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  Mr.  Royall  pushed  back  his  seat,  and 
one  of  the  maple  branches  in  front  of  the 
harmonium  collapsed  with  a  crash.  It  uncovered  the 
end  of  the  first  row  and  in  one  of  the  seats  Charity 
saw  Harney,  and  in  the  next  a  lady  whose  face 
was  turned  toward  him,  and  almost  hidden  by  the 
brim  of  her  drooping  hat.  Charity  did  not  need 
to  see  the  face.  She  knew  at  a  glance  the  slim 
figure,  the  fair  hair  heaped  up  under  the  hat-brim, 
the  long  pale  wrinkled  gloves  with  bracelets  slip 
ping  over  them.  At  the  fall  of  the  branch  Miss 
Balch  turned  her  head  toward  the  stage,  and  in 
her  pretty  thin-lipped  smile  there  lingered  the  re 
flection  of  something  her  neighbour  had  been  whis 
pering  to  her.  .  .  . 

Someone  came  forward  to  replace  the  fallen 
branch,  and  Miss  Balch  and  Harney  were  once  more 
hidden.  But  to  Charity  the  vision  of  their  two 


SUMMER 

faces  had  blotted  out  everything.  In  a  flash  they 
had  shown  her  the  bare  reality  of  her  situation. 
Behind  the  frail  screen  of  her  lover's  caresses  was 
the  whole  inscrutable  mystery  of  his  life:  his  rela 
tions  with  other  people — with  other  women — his 
opinions,  his  prejudices,  his  principles,  the  net  of  in 
fluences  and  interests  and  ambitions  in  which  every 
man's  life  is  entangled.  Of  all  these  she  knew  • 
nothing,  except  what  he  had  told  her  of  his  archi- 
tectural  aspirations.  She  had  always  dimly  guessed 
him  to  be  in  touch  with  important  people,  involved 
in  complicated  relations — but  she  felt  it  all  to  be 
so  far  beyond  her  understanding  that  the  whole 
subject  hung  like  a  luminous  mist  on  the  farthest 
verge  of  her  thoughts.  In  the  foreground,  hiding 
all  else,  there  was  the  glow  of  his  presence,  the 
light  and  shadow  of  his  face,  the  way  his  short-  7 
sighted  eyes,  at  her  approach,  widened  and  deepened 
as  if  to  draw  her  down  into  them;  and,  above  all, 
the  flush  of  youth  and  tenderness  in  which  his  words 
enclosed  her. 

Now  she  saw  him  detached  from  her,  drawn  back 
into  the  unknown,  and  whispering  to  another  girl 
things  that  provoked  the  same  smile  of  mischievous 
complicity  he  had  so  often  called  to  her  own  lips. 

[197] 


SUMMER 

The  feeling  possessing  her  was  not  one  of  jealousy: 
she  was  too  sure  of  his  love.  It  was  rather  a  terror 
of  the  unknown,  of  all  the  mysterious  attractions 
that  must  even  now  be  dragging  him  away  from 
her,  and  of  her  own  powerlessness  to  contend  with 
them. 

She  had  given  him  all  she  had — but  what  was  it 
compared  to  the  other  gifts  life  held  for  him? 
She  understood  now  the  case  of  girls  like  herself 
to  whom  this  kind  of  thing  happened.  They  gave 
all  they  had,  but  their  all  was  not  enough :  it  could 
not  buy  more  than  a  few  moments.  .  .  . 

The  heat  had  grown  suffocating — she  felt  it  de 
scend  on  her  in  smothering  waves,  and  the  faces 
in  the  crowded  hall  began  to  dance  like  the  pictures 
flashed  on  the  screen  at  Nettleton.  For  an  instant 
Mr.  Royall's  countenance  detached  itself  from  the 
general  blur.  He  had  resumed  his  place  in  front 
of  the  harmonium,  and  sat  close  to  her,  his  eyes 
.  on  her  face;  and  his  look  seemed  to  pierce  to  the 
very  centre  of  her  confused  sensations.  ...  A  feel 
ing  of  physical  sickness  rushed  over  her — and  then 
deadly  apprehension.  The  light  of  the  fiery  hours 
in  the  little  house  swept  back  on  her  in  a  glare  of 
fear.  .  .  . 


SUMMER 

She  forced  herself  to  look  away  from  her  guard 
ian,  and  became  aware  that  the  oratory  of  the 
Hatchard  cousin  had  ceased,  and  that  Mr.  Miles 
was  again  flapping  his  wings.  Fragments  of  his 
peroration  floated  through  her  bewildered  brain. 

.  .  .  "A  rich  harvest  of  hallowed  memories.  ... 

' 
A  sanctified  hour  to  which,  in  moments  of  trial,  your 

thoughts  will  prayerfully  return.  .  .  .  And  now,  O 
Lord,  let  us  humbly  and  fervently  give  thanks  for 
this  blessed  day  of  reunion,  here  in  the  old  home 
to  which  we  have  come  back  from  so  far.  Preserve 
it  to  us,  O  Lord,  in  times  to  come,  in  all  its  homely 
sweetness—  in  the  kindliness  and  wisdom  of  its  old 
people,  in  the  courage  and  industry  of  its  young 
men,  in  the  piety  and  purity  of  this  group  of  in 
nocent  girls "  He  flapped  a  white  wing  in  their 

direction,  and  at  the  same  moment  Lambert  Sollas, 
with  his  fierce  nod,  struck  the  opening  bars  of 
"Auld  Lang  Syne."  .  .  .  Charity  stared  straight 
ahead  of  her  and  then,  dropping  her  flowers,  fell 
face  downward  at  Mr.  Royall's  feet. 


XIV 

NORTH  DORMER'S  celebration  naturally 
included  the  villages  attached  to  its  town 
ship,  and  the  festivities  were  to  radiate  over 
the  whole  group,  from  Dormer  and  the  two 
Crestons  to  Hamblin,  the  lonely  hamlet  on  the  north 
slope  of  the  Mountain  where  the  first  snow  always 
fell.  On  the  third  day  there  were  speeches  and 
ceremonies  at  Creston  and  Creston  River;  on  the 
fourth  the  principal  performers  were  to  be  driven 
in  buck-boarcjs  to  Dormer  and  Hamblin. 

It  was  on  the  fourth  day  that  Charity  returned 
for  the  first  time  to  the  little  house.  She  had  not 
seen  Harney  alone  since  they  had  parted  at  the 
wood's  edge  the  night  before  the  celebrations  be 
gan.  In  the  interval  she  had  passed  through  many 
moods,  but  for  the  moment  the  terror  which  had 
seized  her  in  the  Town  Hall  had  faded  to  the  edge 
of  consciousness.  She  had  fainted  because  the  hall 
was  stiflingly  hot,  and  because  the  speakers  had 
gone  on  and  on.  .  .  .  Several  other  people  had 
[200] 


SUMMER 

been  affected  by  the  heat,  and  had  had  to  leave  be 
fore  the  exercises  were  over.  There  had  been  thun 
der  in  the  air  all  the  afternoon,  and  everyone  said 
afterward  that  something  ought  to  have  been  done 
to  ventilate  the  hall.  .  .  . 

At  the  dance  that  evening — where  she  had  gone 
reluctantly,  and  only  because  she  feared  to  stay 
away,  she  had  sprung  back  into  instant  reassurance. 
As  soon  as  she  entered  she  had  seen  Harney  wait 
ing  for  her,  and  he  had  come  up  with  kind  gay 
eyes,  and  swept  her  off  in  a  waltz.  Her  feet  were 
full  of  music,  and  though  her  only  training  had 
been  with  the  village  youths  she  had  no  difficulty 
in  tuning  her  steps  to  his.  As  they  circled  about  the 
floor  all  her  vain  fears  dropped  from  her,  and  she 
even  forgot  that  she  was  probably  dancing  in  An-  V 
nabel  Balch's  slippers. 

When  the  waltz  was  over  Harney,  with  a  last 
hand-clasp,  left  her  to  meet  Miss  Hatchard  and 
Miss  Balch,  who  were  just  entering.  Charity  had 
a  moment  of  anguish  as  Miss  Balch  appeared ;  but  it 
did  not  last.  The  triumphant  fact  of  her  own 
greater  beauty,  and  of  Harney's  sense  of  it,  swept 
her  apprehensions  aside.  Miss  Balch,  in  an  unbe 
coming  dress,  looked  sallow  and  pinched,  and  Char- 
[201] 


SUMMER 

ity  fancied  there  was  a  worried  expression  in  her 
pale-lashed  eyes.  She  took  a  seat  near  Miss  Hatch- 
ard  and  it  was  presently  apparent  that  she  did  not 
mean  to  dance.  Charity  did  not  dance  often  either. 
Harney  explained  to  her  that  Miss  Hatchard  had 
begged  him  to  give  each  of  the  other  girls  a  turn; 
but  he  went  through  the  form  of  asking  Charity's 
permission  each  time  he  led  one  out,  and  that  gave 
her  a  sense  of  secret  triumph  even  completer  than 
when  she  was  whirling  about  the  room  with 
him.  .  .  . 

She  was  thinking  of  all  this  as  she  waited  for 
him  in  the  deserted  house.    The  late  afternoon  was 
sultry,    and    she   had    tossed    aside    her    hat    and 
stretched  herself  at   full  length  on  the  Mexican 
blanket  because  it  was  cooler  indoors  than  under 
the  trees.     She  lay  with  her  arms  folded  beneath 
.  her  head,  gazing  out  at  the  shaggy  shoulder  of  the 
v  Mountain.    The  sky  behind  it  was  full  of  the  splin 
tered  glories  of  the  descending  sun,  and  before  long 
she  expected  to  hear  Harney's  bicycle-bell  in  the 
lane.     He  had  bicycled  to  Hamblin,  instead  of  driv 
ing  there  with  his  cousin  and  her  friends,  so  that 
he  might  be  able  to  make  his  escape  earlier  and 
stop  on  the  way  back  at  the  deserted  house,  which 
[202] 


SUMMER 

was  on  the  road  to  Hamblin.  They  had  smiled  to 
gether  at  the  joke  of  hearing  the  crowded  buck- 
boards  roll  by  on  the  return,  while  they  lay  close 
in  their  hiding  above  the  road.  Such  childish 
triumphs  still  gave  her  a  sense  of  reckless  security. 

Nevertheless  she  had  not  wholly  forgotten  the 
vision  of  fear  that  had  opened  before  her  in  the 
Town  Hall.  The  sense  of  frastingness  was  gone 
from  her  and  every  moment  with  Harney  would 
now  be  ringed  with  doubt. 

\JThe  Mountain  was  turning  purple  against  a  fiery 
sunset  from  which  it  seemed  to  be  divided  by  a  , 
knife-edge  of  quivering  light;  and  above  this  wall 
of  flame  the  whole  sky  was  a  pure  pale  green,  like 
some  cold  mountain  lake  in  shadow.)  Charity  lay 
gazing  up  at  it,  and  watching  for  the  first  white 
star.  .  .  . 

Her  eyes  were  still  fixed  on  the  upper  reaches 
of  the  sky  when  she  became  aware  that  a  shadow 
had  flitted  across  the  glory-flooded  room:  it  must 
have  been  Harney  passing  the  window  against  the 
sunset.  .  .  .  She  half  raised  herself,  and  then 
dropped  back  on  her  folded  arms.  The  combs  had 
slipped  from  her  hair,  and  it  trailed  in  a  rough 
dark  rope  across  her  breast.  She  lay  quite  still, 
[203] 


SUMMER 

a  sleepy  smile  on  her  lips,  her  indolent  lids  half 
shut.  There  was  a  fumbling  at  the  padlock  and  she 
called  out:  "Have  you  slipped  the  chain?"  The 
door  opened,  and  Mr.  Royall  walked  into  the  room. 

She  started  up,  sitting  back  against  the  cushions, 
and  they  looked  at  each  other  without  speaking. 
Then  Mr.  Royall  closed  the  door-latch  and  advanced 
a  few  steps. 

Charity  jumped  to  her  feet.  "What  have  you 
come  for?"  she  stammered. 

The  last  glare  of  the  sunset  was  on  her  guardian's 
face,  which  looked  ash-coloured  in  the  yellow  radi 
ance. 

"Because  I  knew  you  were  here,"  he  answered 
simply. 

She  had  become  conscious  of  the  hair  hanging 
loose  across  her  breast,  and  it  seemed  as  though 
she  could  not  speak  to  him  till  she  had  set  herself 
in  order.  She  groped  for  her  comb,  and  tried  to 
fasten  up  the  coil.  Mr.  Royall  silently  watched  her. 

"Charity,"  he  said,  "he'll  be  here  in  a  minute. 
Let  me  talk  to  you  first." 

"You've  got  no  right  to  talk  to  me.  I  can  do 
what  I  please." 

"Yes.    What  is  it  you  mean  to  do?" 
[204] 


SUMMER 

"I  needn't  answer  that,  or  anything  else." 

He  had  glanced  away,  and  stood  looking  curiously 
about  the  illuminated  room.  Purple  asters  and  red- 
maple-leaves  filled  the  jar  on  the  table;  on  a  shelf 
against  the  wall  stood  a  lamp,  the  kettle,  a  little  pile 
of  cups  and  saucers.  The  canvas  chairs  were 
grouped  about  the  table. 

"So  this  is  where  you  meet/'  he  said. 

His  tone  was  quiet  and  controlled,  and  the  fact 
disconcerted  her.  She  had  been  ready  to  give  him 
violence  for  violence,  but  this  calm  acceptance  of 
things  as  they  were  left  her  without  a  weapon. 

"See  here,  Charity — you're  always  telling  me 
I've  got  no  rights  over  you.  There  might  be  two 
ways  of  looking  at  that — but  I  ain't  going  to  argue 
it.  All  I  know  is  I  raised  you  as  good  as  I  could, 
and  meant  fairly  by  you  always — except  once,  for 
a  bad  half-hour.  There's  no  justice  in  weighing 
that  half-hour  against  the  rest,  and  you  know  it.  If 
you  hadn't,  you  wouldn't  have  gone  on  living  under 
my  roof.  Seems  to  me  the  fact  of  your  doing  that 
gives  me  some  sort  of  a  right;  the  right  to  try  and 
keep  you  out  of  trouble.  I'm  not  asking  you  to 
consider  any  other." 

She  listened  in  silence,  and  then  gave  a  slight 
[205] 


SUMMER 

laugh.     "Better  wait  till  I'm  in  trouble/'  she  said. 

He  paused  a  moment,  as  if  weighing  her  words. 
"Is  that  all  your  answer  ?" 

"Yes,  that's  all." 

"Well— I'll  wait." 

He  turned  away  slowly,  but  as  he  did  so  the  thing 
she  had  been  waiting  for  happened ;  the  door  opened 
again  and  Harney  entered. 

He  stopped  short  with  a  face  of  astonishment, 
and  then,  quickly  controlling  himself,  went  up  to 
Mr.  Royall  with  a  frank  look. 

"Have  you  come  to  see  me,  sir?"  he  said  coolly, 
throwing  his  cap  on  the  table  with  an  air  of  pro 
prietorship. 

Mr.  Royall  again  looked  slowly  about  the  room ; 
then  his  eyes  turned  to  the  young  man. 

"Is  this  your  house  ?"  he  inquired. 

Harney  laughed:  "Well — as  much  as  it's  any 
body's.  I  come  here  to  sketch  occasionally." 

"And  to  receive  Miss  Royall's  visits?" 

"When  she  does  me  the  honour " 

"Is  this  the  home  you  propose  to  bring  her  to 
when  you  get  married  ?" 

There  was  an  immense  and  oppressive  silence. 
Charity,  quivering  with  anger,  started  forward,  and 

[206] 


SUMMER 

then  stood  silent,  too  humbled  for  speech.  Harney's 
eyes  had  dropped  under  the  old  man's  gaze;  but 
he  raised  them  presently,  and  looking  steadily  at 
Mr.  Royall,  said:  "Miss  Royall  is  not  a  child. 
Isn't  it  rather  absurd  to  talk  of  her  as  if  she  were? 
I  believe  she  considers  herself  free  to  come  and 
go  as  she  pleases,  without  any  questions  from  any 
one."  He  paused  and  added:  "I'm  ready  to  an 
swer  any  she  wishes  to  ask  me." 

Mr.  Royall  turned  to  her.  "Ask  him  when  he's 

going  to  marry  you,  then "  There  was  another 

silence,  and  he  laughed  in  his  turn — a  broken  laugh, 
with  a  scraping  sound  in  it.  "You  darsn't!"  he 
shouted  out  with  sudden  passion.  He  went  close 
up  to  Charity,  his  right  arm  lifted,  not  in  menace 
but  in  tragic  exhortation. 

"You  darsn't,  and  you  know  it — and  you  know 
why !"  He  swung  back  again  upon  the  young  man. 
"And  you  know  why  you  ain't  asked  her  to  marry 
you,  and  why  you  don't  mean  to.  It's  because  you 
hadn't  need  to ;  nor  any  other  man  either.  I'm  the 
only  one  that  was  fool  enough  not  to  know  that; 
and  I  guess  nobody'll  repeat  my  mistake — not  in 
Eagle  County,  anyhow.  They  all  know  what  she 
is,  and  what  she  came  from.  They  all  know  her 
[207] 


SUMMER 

mother  was  a  woman  of  the  town  from  Nettle- 
ton,  that  followed  one  of  those  Mountain  fellows  up 
to  his  place  and  lived  there  with  him  like  a  heathen. 
I  saw  her  there  sixteen  years  ago,  when  I  went  to 
bring  this  child  down.  I  went  to  save  her  from  the 
kind  of  life  her  mother  was  leading — but  I'd  better 
have  left  her  in  the  kennel  she  came  from.  .  .  ." 
He  paused  and  stared  darkly  at  the  two  young 
people,  and  out  beyond  them,  at  the  menac 
ing  Mountain  with  its  rim  of  fire;  then  he  sat 
down  beside  the  table  on  which  they  had  so  often 
spread  their  rustic  supper,  and  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands.  Harney  leaned  in  the  window, 
a  frown  on  his  face:  he  was  twirling  between  his 
fingers  a  small  package  that  dangled  from  a  loop 
of  string.  .  .  .  Charity  heard  Mr.  Royall  draw  a 
hard  breath  or  two,  and  his  shoulders  shook  a 
little.  Presently  he  stood  up  and  walked  across 
the  room.  He  did  not  look  again  at  the  young 
people:  they  saw  him  feel  his  way  to  the  door 
and  fumble  for  the  latch;  and  then  he  went  out 
into  the  darkness. 

After  he  had  gone  there  was  a  long  silence.  Char 
ity  waited  for  Harney  to  speak;  but  he  seemed  at 
first  not  to  find  anything  to  say.     At  length  he 
[208] 


i 


SUMMER 

broke  out  irrelevantly:  "I  wonder  how  he  found 
out?" 

She  made  no  answer  and  he  tossed  down  the 
package  he  had  been  holding,  and  went  up  to  her. 

"I'm  so  sorry,  dear  .  .  .  that  this  should  have 
happened.  .  .  ." 

She  threw  her  head  back  proudly.  "I  ain't  ever 
been  sorry — not  a  minute!" 

"No." 

She  waited  to  be  caught  into  his  arms,  but  he 
turned  away  from  her  irresolutely.  The  last  glow 
was  gone  from  behind  the  Mountain.  Everything 
in  the  room  had  turned  grey  and  indistinct,  and 
an  autumnal  dampness  crept  up  from  the  hollow 
below  the  orchard,  laying  its  cold  touch  on  their 
flushed  faces.  Harney  walked  the  length  of  the 
room,  and  then  turned  back  and  sat  down  at  the 
table. 

"Come,"  he  said  imperiously. 

She  sat  down  beside  him,  and  he  untied  the  string 
about  the  package  and  spread  out  a  pile  of  sand 
wiches. 

"I  stole  them  from  the  love-feast  at  Hamblin," 
he  said  with  a  laugh,  pushing  them  over  to  her. 
She  laughed  too,  and  took  one,  and  began  to  eat. 
14  [209] 


SUMMER 

"Didn't  you  make  the  tea?" 

"No/'  she  said.    "I  forgot " 

"Oh,  well — it's  too  late  to  boil  the  water  now." 
He  said  nothing  more,  and  sitting  opposite  to  each 
other  they  went  on  silently  eating  the  sandwiches. 
Darkness  had  descended  in  the  little  room,  and  Har- 
ney's  face  was  a  dim  blur  to  Charity.  Suddenly 
he  leaned  across  the  table  and  laid  his  hand  on 
hers. 

"I  shall  have  to  go  off  for  a  while — a  month 
or  two,  perhaps — to  arrange  some  things ;  and  then 
I'll  come  back  .  -  ,  and  we'll  get  married." 

His  voice  seemed  like  a  stranger's:  nothing  was 
left  in  it  of  the  vibrations  she  knew.  Her  hand 
lay  inertly  under  his,  and  she  left  it  there,  and 
raised  her  head,  trying  to  answer  him.  But  the 
words  died  in  her  throat.  They  sat  motionless, 
in  their  attitude  of  confident  endearment,  as  if  some 
strange  death  had  surprised  them.  At  length  Har- 
Jiey  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  slight  shiver.  "God ! 
it's  damp — we  couldn't  have  come  here  much 
longer."  He  went  to  the  shelf,  took  down  a  tin 
candle-stick  and  lit  the  candle;  then  he  propped 
an  unhinged  shutter  against  the  empty  window- 
frame  and  put  the  candle  on  the  table.  It  threw 

[210] 


SUMMER 

tip  a  queer  shadow  on  his  frowning  forehead,  and 
made  the  smile  on  his  lips  a  grimace. 

"But  it's  been  good,  though,  hasn't  it,  Charity? 
.  .  .  What's  the  matter — why  do  you  stand  there 
staring  at  me?  Haven't  the  days  here  been  good?" 
He  went  up  to  her  and  caught  her  to  his  breast. 
"And  there'll  be  others — lots  of  others  .  .  .  jol 
lier  .  .  .  even  jollier  .  .  .  won't  there,  darling?" 

He  turned  her  head  back,  feeling  for  the  curve 
of  her  throat  below  the  ear,  and  kissing  here  there, 
and  on  the  hair  and  eyes  and  lips.  She  clung  to 
him  desperately,  and  as  he  drew  her  to  his  knees  on 
the  couch  she  felt  as  if  they  were  being  sucked  down 
together  into  some  bottomless  abyss. 


XV 


THAT  night,  as  usual,  they  said  good-bye  at 
the  wood's  edge. 

Harney  was  to  leave  the  next  morning  early. 
He  asked  Charity  to  say  nothing  of  their  plans 
till  his  return,  and,  strangely  even  to  herself,  she 
was  glad  of  the  postponement.  A  leaden  weight 
of  shame  hung  on  her,  benumbing  every  other  sen 
sation,  and  she  bade  him  good-bye  with  hardly  a 
sign  of  emotion.  His  reiterated  promises  to  return 
seemed  almost  wounding.  She  had  no  doubt  that 
he  intended  to  come  back;  her  doubts  were  far 
deeper  and  less  definable. 

Since  the  fanciful  vision  of  the  future  that  had 
flitted  through  her  imagination  at  their  first  meet 
ing  she  had  hardly  ever  thought  of  his  marrying  her. 
She  had  not  had  to  put  the  thought  from  her  mind ; 
it  had  not  been  there.  If  ever  she  looked  ahead 
she  felt  instinctively  that  the  gulf  between  them 
was  too  deep,  and  that  the  bridge  their  passion  had 
flung  across  it  was  as  insubstantial  as  a  rainbo\v. 
[212] 


SUMMER 

But  she  seldom  looked  ahead;  each  day  was  so 
rich  that  it  absorbed  her.  ...  Now  her  first  feel 
ing  was  that  everything  would  be  different,  and  that 
she  herself  would  be  a  different  being  to  Harney. 
Instead  of  remaining  separate  and  absolute,  she 
would  be  compared  with  other  people,  and  unknown 
things  would  be  expected  of  her.  She  was  too 
proud  to  be  afraid,  but  the  freedom  of  her  spirit 
drooped.  .  .  . 

Harney  had  not  fixed  any  date  for  his  return; 
he  had  said  he  would  have  to  look  about  first,  and 
settle  things.  He  had  promised  to  write  as  soon 
as  there  was  anything  definite  to  say,  and  had  left 
her  his  address,  and  asked  her  to  write  also.  But 
the  address  frightened  her.  It  was  in  New  York, 
at  a  club  with  a  long  name  in  Fifth  Avenue:  it 
seemed  to  raise  an  insurmountable  barrier  between 
them.  Once  or  twice,  in  the  first  days,  she  got  out 
a  sheet  of  paper,  and  sat  looking  at  it,  and  trying 
to  think  what  to  say;  but  she  had  the  feeling  that 
her  letter  would  never  reach  its  destination.  She 
had  never  written  to  anyone  farther  away  than 
Hepburn. 

Harney's  first  letter  came  after  he  had  been  gone 
about  ten  days.  It  was  tender  but  grave,  and  bore 


SUMMER 

no  resemblance  to  the  gay  little  notes  he  had  sent 
her  by  the  freckled  boy  from  Creston  River.  He 
spoke  positively  of  his  intention  of  coming  back, 
but  named  no  date,  and  reminded  Charity  of  their 
agreement  that  their  plans  should  not  be  divulged 
till  he  had  had  time  to  "settle  things."  When  that 
would  be  he  could  not  yet  foresee;  but  she  could 
count  on  his  returning  as  soon  as  the  way  was 
clear. 

She  read  the  letter  with  a  strange  sense  of  its 
coming  from  immeasurable  distances  and  having 
lost  most  of  its  meaning  on  the  way;  and  in  reply 
she  sent  him  a  coloured  post-card  of  Creston  Falls, 
on  which  she  wrote:  "With  love  from  Charity." 
She  felt  the  pitiful  inadequacy  of  this,  and  under 
stood,  with  a  sense  of  despair,  that  in  her  inability 
to  express  herself  she  must  give  him  an  impres 
sion  of  coldness  and  reluctance;  but  she  could  not 
help  it.  She  could  not  forget  that  he  had  never 
spoken  to  her  of  marriage  till  Mr.  Royall  had  forced 
the  word  from  his  lips;  though  she  had  not  had 
the  strength  to  shake  off  the  spell  that  bound  her 
to  him  she  had  lost  all  spontaneity  of  feeling,  and 
l  seemed  to  herself  to  be  passively  awaiting  a  fate  she 
could  not  avert. 


• 


SUMMER 

She  had  not  seen  Mr.  Royall  on  her  return  to 
the  red  house.  The  morning  after  her  parting  from 
Harney,  when  she  came  down  from  her  room,  Ve- 
rena  told  her  that  her  guardian  had  gone  off  to 
Worcester  and  Portland.  It  was  the  time  of  year 
when  he  usually  reported  to  the  insurance  agencies 
he  represented,  and  there  was  nothing  unusual  in 
his  departure  except  its  suddenness.  She  thought 
little  about  him,  except  to  be  glad  he  was  not 
there.  .  .  . 

She  kept  to  herself  for  the  first  days,  while 
North  Dormer  was  recovering  from  its  brief  plunge 
into  publicity,  and  the  subsiding  agitation  left  her 
unnoticed.  But  the  faithful  Ally  could  not  be  long 
avoided.  For  the  first  few  days  after  the  close  of 
the  Old  Home  Week  festivities  Chanty  escaped  her 
by  roaming  the  hills  all  day  when  she  was  not 
at  her  post  in  the  library;  but  after  that  a  period 
of  rain  set  in,  and  one  pouring  afternoon,  Ally, 
sure  that  she  would  find  her  friend  indoors,  came 
around  to  the  red  house  with  her  sewing. 

The  two  girls  sat  upstairs  in  Charity's  room. 
Charity,  her  idle  hands  in  her  lap,  was  sunk  in  a 
kind  of  leaden  dream,  through  which  she  was  only 
half-conscious  of  Ally,  who  sat  opposite  her  in  a 


SUMMER 

low  rush-bottomed  chair,  her  work  pinned  to  her 
knee,  and  her  thin  lips  pursed  up  as  she  bent  above  it. 

"It  was  my  idea  running  a  ribbon  through  the 
gauging,"  she  said  proudly,  drawing  back  to  con 
template  the  blouse  she  was  trimming.  "It's  for 
Miss  Balch :  she  was  awfully  pleased."  She  paused 
and  then  added,  with  a  queer  tremor  in  her  piping 
voice :  "I  darsn't  have  told  her  I  got  the  idea  from 
one  I  saw  on  Julia." 

Charity  raised  her  eyes  listlessly.  "Do  you  still 
see  Julia  sometimes?" 

Ally  reddened,  as  if  the  allusion  had  escaped  her 
unintentionally.  "Oh,  it  was  a  long  time  ago  I 
seen  her  with  those  gaugings.  .  .  ." 

Silence  fell  again,  and  Ally  presently  continued: 
"Miss  Balch  left  me  a  whole  lot  of  things  to  do 
over  this  time." 

"Why — has  she  gone  ?"  Chanty  inquired  with  an 
inner  start  of  apprehension. 

"Didn't  you  know?  She  went  off  the  morning 
after  they  had  the  celebration  at  Hamblin.  I  seen 
her  drive  by  early  with  Mr.  Harney." 

There  was  another  silence,  measured  by  the  steady 
tick  of  the  rain  against  the  window,  and,  at  inter 
vals,  by  the  snipping  sound  of  Ally's  scissors. 


SUMMER 

Ally  gave  a  meditative  laugh.  "Do  you  know 
what  she  told  me  before  she  went  away  ?  She  told 
me  she  was  going  to  send  for  me  to  come  over  to 
Springfield  and  make  some  things  for  her  wed- 
ding." 

Charity  again  lifted  her  heavy  lids  and  stared  at 
Ally's  pale  pointed  face,  which  moved  to  and  fro 
above  her  moving  fingers. 

"Is  she  going  to  get  married?" 

Ally  let  the  blouse  sink  to  her  knee,  and  sat  gazing 
at  it.  Her  lips  seemed  suddenly  dry,  and  she  moist 
ened  them  a  little  with  her  tongue. 

"Why,  I  presume  so  ...  from  what  she  said. 
.  .  .  Didn't  you  know?" 

"Why  should  I  know?" 

Ally  did  not  answer.  She  bent  above  the  blouse, 
and  began  picking  out  a  basting  thread  with  the 
point  of  the  scissors. 

"Why  should  I  know?"  Charity  repeated 
harshly. 

"I  didn't  know  but  what  .  .  .  folks  here  say  she's 
engaged  to  Mr.  Harney." 

Charity  stood  up  with  a  laugh,  and  stretched  her 
arms  lazily  above  her  head. 

"If  all  the  people  got  married  that  folks  say  are 


SUMMER 

going  to  you'd  have  your  time  full  making  wedding- 
dresses,"  she  said  ironically. 

"Why — don't  you  believe  it?"  Ally  ventured. 

"It  would  not  make  it  true  if  I  did — nor  prevent 
it  if  I  didn't." 

"That's  so.  ...  I  only  know  I  seen  her  crying 
the  night  of  the  party  because  her  dress  didn't  set 
right.  That  was  why  she  wouldn't  dance  any.  .  .  ." 

Charity  stood  absently  gazing  down  at  the  lacy 
garment  on  Ally's  knee.  Abruptly  she  stooped  and 
snatched  it  up. 

"Well,  I  guess  she  won't  dance  in  this  either," 
she  said  with  sudden  violence;  and  grasping  the 
blouse  in  her  strong  young  hands  she  tore  it  in  two 
and  flung  the  tattered  bits  to  the  floor. 

"Oh,  Charity "  Ally  cried,  springing  up.  For 

a  long  interval  the  two  girls  faced  each  other  across 
the  ruined  garment.  Ally  burst  into  tears. 

"Oh,  what'lllsaytoher?  What'llldo?  It  was 
real  lace!"  she  wailed  between  her  piping  sobs. 

Charity  glared  at  her  unrelentingly.  "You'd 
oughtn't  to  have  brought  it  here,"  she  said,  breath 
ing  quickly.  "I  hate  other  people's  clothes — it's  just 
as  if  they  was  there  themselves."  The  two  stared 
at  each  other  again  over  this  avowal,  till  Charity 
[218] 


SUMMER 

brought  out,  in  a  gasp  of  anguish :  "Oh,  go — go — 
go — or  I'll  hate  you  too.  .  .  ." 

When  Ally  left  her,  she  fell  sobbing  across  her 
bed. 

The  long  storm  was  followed  by  a  north-west 
gale,  and  when  it  was  over,  the  hills  took  on  their 
first  umber  tints,  the  sky  grew  more  densely  blue, 
and  the  big  white  clouds  lay  against  the  hills  like 
snow-banks.  The  first  crisp  maple-leaves  began  to 
spin  across  Miss  Hatchard's  lawn,  and  the  Virginia 
creeper  on  the  Memorial  splashed  the  white  porch 
with  scarlet.  )  It  was  a  golden  triumphant  Septem 
ber.  Day  by  day  the  flame  of  the  Virginia  creeper 
spread  to  the  hillsides  in  wider  waves  of  carmine 
and  crimson,  the  larches  glowed  like  the  thin  yel 
low  halo  about  a  fire,  the  maples  blazed  dSd.  smoul 
dered,  and  the  black  hemlocks  turned  to  indigo 
against  the  incandescence  of  the  forest/) 

The  nights  were  cold,  with  a  dry  glitter  of  stars 
so  high  up  that  they  seemed  smaller  and  more 
vivid.  Sometimes,  as  Charity  lay  sleepless  on  her 
bed  through  the  long  hours,  she  felt  as  though  she 
were  bound  to  those  wheeling  fires  and  swinging 
with  them  around  the  great  black  vault.  At  night 
she  planned  many  things  .  .  .it  was  then  she 
[219] 


SUMMER 

wrote  to  Harney.  But  the  letters  were  never 
put  on  paper,  for  she  did  not  know  how  to  express 
what  she  wanted  to  tell  him.  So  she  waited. 
Since  her  talk  with  Ally  she  had  felt  sure  that 
Harney  was  engaged  to  Annabel  Balch,  and  that 
the  process  of  "settling  things"  would  involve  the 
breaking  of  this  tie.  Her  first  rage  of  jealousy 
over,  she  felt  no  fear  on  this  score.  She  was  still 
sure  that  Harney  would  come  back,  and  she  was 
equally  sure  that,  for  the  moment  at  least,  it  was  she 
whom  he  loved  and  not  Miss  Balch.  Yet  the  girl, 
no  less,  remained  a  rival,  since  she  represented  all 
the  things  that  Charity  felt  herself  most  incapable 
of  understanding  or  achieving.  Annabel  Balch  was, 
if  not  the  girl  Harney  ought  to  marry,  at  least  the 
kind  of  girl  it  would  be  natural  for  him  to  marry. 
Charity  had  never  been  able  to  picture  herself  as  his 
wife;  had  never  been  able  to  arrest  the  vision  and 
follow  it  out  in  its  daily  consequences ;  but  she  could 
perfectly  imagine  Annabel  Balch  in  that  relation 
to  him. 

The  more  she  thought  of  these  things  the  more 

the  sense  of  fatality  weighed  on  her :  she  felt  the 

uselessness  of  struggling  against  the  circumstances. 

She  had  neVer  known  how  to  adapt  herself;  she 

[220] 


SUMMER 

could  only  break  and  tear  and  destroy.  The  scene 
with  Ally  had  left  her  stricken  with  shame  at  her 
own  childish  savagery.  What  would  Harney  have 
thought  if  he  had  witnessed  it  ?  But  when  she  turned 
the  incident  over  in  her  puzzled  mind  she  could 
not  imagine  what  a  civilized  person  would  have 
done  in  her  place.  She  felt  herself  too  unequally 
pitted  against  unknown  forces.  .  .  . 

At  length  this  feeling  moved  her  to  sudden  ac 
tion.  She  took  a  sheet  of  letter  paper  from  Mr. 
Royall's  office,  and  sitting  by  the  kitchen  lamp,  one 
night  after  Verena  had  gone  to  bed,  began  her  first 
letter  to  Harney.  It  was  very  short: 

I  want  you  should  marry  Annabel  Balch  if  you 
promised  to.  I  think  maybe  you  were  afraid  I'd  feel 
too  bad  about  it.  I  feel  I'd  rather  you  acted  right. 

Your  loving 

CHARITY. 

She  posted  the  letter  early  the  next  morning,  and 
for  a  few  days  her  heart  felt  strangely  light.  Then 
she  began  to  wonder  why  she  received  no  answer. 

One  day  as  she  sat  alone  in  the  library  ponder 
ing  these  things  the  walls  of  books  began  to  spin 
around  her,  and  the  rosewood  desk  to  rock  under 

[221] 


SUMMER 

her  elbows.  The  dizziness  was  followed  by  a  wave 
of  nausea  like  that  she  had  felt  on  the  day  of  the 
exercises  in  the  Town  Hall.  But  the  Town  Hall 
had  been  crowded  and  stiflingly  hot,  and  the  library 
was  empty,  and  so  chilly  that  she  had  kept  on  her 
jacket.  Five  minutes  before  she  had  felt  perfectly 
well;  and  now  it  seemed  as  if  she  were  going  to  die. 
The  bit  of  lace  at  which  she  still  languidly  worked 
dropped  from  her  fingers,  and  the  steel  crochet  hook 
clattered  to  the  floor.  She  pressed  her  temples  hard 
between  her  damp  hands,  steadying  herself  against 
the  desk  while  the  wave  of  sickness  swept  over  her. 
Little  by  little  it  subsided,  and  after  a  few  minutes 
she  stood  up,  shaken  and  terrified,  groped  for  her 
hat,  and  stumbled  out  into  the  air.  But  the  whole 
sunlit  autumn  whirled,  reeled  and  roared  around 
her  as  she  dragged  herself  along  the  interminable 
length  of  the  road  home. 

As  she  approached  the  red  house  she  saw  a  buggy 
standing  at  the  door,  and  her  heart  gave  a  leap. 
But  it  was  only  Mr.  Royall  who  got  out,  his  travel 
ling-bag  in  hand.  He  saw  her  coming,  and  waited 
in  the  porch.  She  was  conscious  that  he  was  looking 
at  her  intently,  as  if  there  was  something  strange 
in  her  appearance,  and  she  threw  back  her  head 
[222] 


SUMMER 

with  a  desperate  effort  at  ease.  Their  eyes  met, 
and  she  said :  " You  back  ?"  as  if  nothing  had  hap 
pened,  and  he  answered:  "Yes,  I'm  back,"  and 
walked  in  ahead  of  her,  pushing  open  the  door  of 
his  office.  She  climbed  to  her  room,  every  step 
of  the  stairs  holding  her  fast  as  if  her  feet  were 
lined  with  glue. 

Two  days  later,  she  descended  from  the  train  at 
Nettleton,  and  walked  out  of  the  station  into  the 
dusty  square.  The  brief  interval  of  cold  weather 
was  over,  and  the  day  was  as  soft,  and  almost  as 
hot,  as  when  she  and  Harney  had  emerged  on  the 
same  scene  on  the  Fourth  of  July.  In  the  square 
the  same  broken-down  hacks  and  carry-alls  stood 
drawn  up  in  a  despondent  line,  and  the  lank  horses 
with  fly-nets  over  their  withers  swayed  their  heads 
drearily  to  and  fro.  She  recognized  the  staring 
signs  over  the  eating-houses  and  billiard  saloons, 
and  the  long  lines  of  wires  on  lofty  poles  tapering 
down  the  main  street  to  the  park  at  its  other  end. 
Taking  the  way  the  wires  pointed,  she  went  on 
hastily,  with  bent  head,  till  she  reached  a  wide 
transverse  street  with  a  brick  building  at  the  corner. 
She  crossed  this  street  and  glanced  furtively  up  at 
the  front  of  the  brick  building;  then  she  returned, 
[223] 


SUMMER 

and  entered  a  door  opening  on  a  flight  of  steep 
brass-rimmed  stairs.  On  the  second  landing  she 
rang  a  bell,  and  a  mulatto  girl  with  a  bushy  head 
and  a  frilled  apron  let  her  into  a  hall  where  a  stuffed 
fox  on  his  hind  legs  proffered  a  brass  card-tray  to 
visitors.  At  the  back  of  the  hall  was  a  glazed  door 
marked :  "Office."  After  waiting  a  few  minutes 
in  a  handsomely  furnished  room,  with  plush  sofas 
surmounted  by  large  gold-framed  photographs  of 
showy  young  women,  Charity  was  shown  into  the 
office.  .  .  . 

When  she  came  out  of  the  glazed  door  Dr.  Merkle 
followed,  and  led  her  into  another  room,  smaller, 
and  still  more  crowded  with  plush  and  gold  frames. 
Dr.  Merkle  was  a  plump  woman  with  small  bright 
eyes,  an  immense  mass  of  black  hair  coming  down 
low  on  her  forehead,  and  unnaturally  white  and 
even  teeth.  She  wore  a  rich  black  dress,  with  gold 
chains  and  charms  hanging  from  her  bosom.  Her 
hands  were  large  and  smooth,  and  quick  in  all  their 
movements;  and  she  smelt  of  musk  and  carbolic 
acid. 

She  smiled  on  Charity  with  all  her  faultless  teeth. 
"Sit  down,  my  dear.  Wouldn't  you  like  a  little 
[224] 


SUMMER 

drop  of  something  to  pick  you  up?  .  .  .  No.  .  .  . 
Well,  just  lay  back  a  minute  then.  .  .  .  There's 
nothing  to  be  done  just  yet ;  but  in  about  a  month, 
if  you'll  step  round  again  ...  I  could  take  you 
right  into  my  own  house  for  two  or  three  days, 
and  there  wouldn't  be  a  mite  of  trouble.  Mercy 
me!  The  next  time  you'll  know  better'n  to  fret 
like  this.  .  .  ." 

Charity  gazed  at  her  with  widening  eyes.  This 
woman  with  the  false  hair,  the  false  teeth,  the  false 
murderous  smile — what  was  she  offering  her  but 
immunity  from  some  unthinkable  crime?  Charity, 
till  then,  had  been  conscious  only  of  a  vague  self- 
disgust  and  a  frightening  physical  distress ;  now,  of 
a  sudden,  there  came  to  her  the  grave  surprise  of 
motherhood.  She  had  come  to  this  dreadful  place 
because  she  knew  of  no  other  way  of  making  sure 
that  she  was  not  mistaken  about  her  state;  and 
the  woman  had  taken  her  for  a  miserable  creature 
like  Julia.  .  .  .  The  thought  was  so  horrible  that 
she  sprang  up,  white  and  shaking,  one  of  her  great 
rushes  of  anger  sweeping  over  her. 

Dr.  Merkle,  still  smiling,  also  rose.  "Why  do 
you  run  off  in  such  a  hurry  ?  You  can  stretch  out 
right  here  on  my  sofa.  .  .  ."  She  paused,  and  her 
15  [225] 


SUMMER 

smile  grew  more  motherly.  "Afterwards — if  there's 
been  any  talk  at  home,  and  you  want  to  get  away 
for  a  while  ...  I  have  a  lady  friend  in  Boston 
who's  looking  for  a  companion  .  .  .  you're  the 
very  one  to  suit  her,  my  dear.  .  .  ." 

Charity  had  reached  the  door.  "I  don't  want  to 
stay.  I  don't  want  to  come  back  here,"  she  stam 
mered,  her  hand  on  the  knob;  but  with  a  swift 
movement,  Dr.  Merkle  edged  her  from  the  thresh 
old. 

"Oh,  very  well.    Five  dollars,  please/' 

Charity  looked  helplessly  at  the  doctor's  tight 
lips  and  rigid  face.  Her  last  savings  had  gone 
in  repaying  Ally  for  the  cost  of  Miss  Balch's 
ruined  blouse,  and  she  had  had  to  borrow  four  dol 
lars  from  her  friend  to  pay  for  her  railway  ticket 
and  cover  the  doctor's  fee.  It  had  never  occurred 
to  her  that  medical  advice  could  cost  more  than  two 
dollars. 

"I  didn't  know  ...  I  haven't  got  that 
much  ..."  she  faltered,  bursting  into  tears. 

Dr.  Merkle  gave  a  short  laugh  which  did  not 
show  her  teeth,  and  inquired  with  concision  if  Char 
ity  supposed  she  ran  the  establishment  for  her  own 
amusement  ?  She  leaned  her  firm  shoulders  against 

[226] 


SUMMER 

: 

the  door  as  she  spoke,  like  a  grim  gaoler  making 

J  terms  with  her  captive. 
"You  say  you'll  come  round  and  settle  later  ?    I've 
heard  that  pretty  often  too.    Give  me  your  address, 
and  if  you  can't  pay  me  I'll  send  the  bill  to  your 
folks.  .  .  .  What?      I  can't  understand  what  you 
say.  .  .  .  That  don't  suit  you  either?     My,  you're 
;  pretty  particular  for  a  girl  that  ain't  got  enough 
;  to  settle  her  own  bills.  ..."    She  paused,  and  fixed 
her  eyes  on  the  brooch  with  a  blue  stone  that  Char 
ity  had  pinned  to  her  blouse. 

"Ain't  you  ashamed  to  talk  that  way  to  a  lady 
that's  got  to  earn  her  living,  when  you  go  about 
with  jewellery  like  that  on  you?  .  .  .  It  ain't  in  my 
line,  and  I  do  it  only  as  a  favour  .  .  .  but  if  you're 
a  mind  to  leave  that  brooch  as  a  pledge,  I  don't  say 
no.  ...  Yes,  of  course,  you  can  get  it  back  when 
you  bring  me  my  money.  ..." 

On  the  way  home,  she  felt  an  immense  and  un 
expected  quietude.  It  had  been  horrible  to  have 
to  leave  Harney's  gift  in  the  woman's  hands,  but 
even  at  that  price  the  news  she  brought  away  had 
not  been  too  dearly  bought.  She  sat  with  half- 
closed  eyes  as  the  train  rushed  through  the  familiar 
[227] 


SUMMER 

landscape;  and  now  the  memories  of  her  former 
journey,  instead  of  flying  before  her  like  dead! 
leaves,  seemed  to  be  ripening  in  her  blood  like  sleep 
ing  grain.  She  would  never  again  know  what  it  was< 
to  feel  herself  alone.  Everything  seemed  to  have 
grown  suddenly  clear  and  simple.  She  no  longer  had 
any  difficulty  in  picturing  herself  as  Harney's  wife 
now  that  she  was  the  mother  of  his  child ;  and  com 
pared  to  her  sovereign  right  Annabel  Balch's  claim 
seemed  no  more  than  a  girl's  sentimental  fancy. 

That  evening,  at  the  gate  of  the  red  house,  she 
found  Ally  waiting  in  the  dusk.  "I  was  down  at 
the  post-office  just  as  they  were  closing  up,  and  Will 
Targatt  said  there  was  a  letter  for  you,  so  I  brought 
it" 

Ally  held  out  the  letter,  looking  at  Charity  with 
piercing  sympathy.  Since  the  scene  of  the  torn 
blouse  there  had  been  a  new  and  fearful  admiration 
in  the  eyes  she  bent  on  her  friend. 

Charity  snatched  the  letter  with  a  laugh.  "Oh, 
thank  you — good-night/'  she  called  out  over  her 
shoulder  as  she  ran  up  the  path.  If  she  had  lin 
gered  a  moment  she  knew  she  would  have  had 
Ally  at  her  heels. 

[228] 


SUMMER 

She  hurried  upstairs  and  felt  her  way  into  her 
dark  room.  Her  hands  trembled  as  she  groped 
for  the  matches  and  lit  her  candle,  and  the  flap 
of  the  envelope  was  so  closely  stuck  that  she  had 
to  find  her  scissors  and  slit  it  open.  At  length  she 
read: 

DEAR  CHARITY: 

I  have  your  letter,  and  it  touches  me  more  than  I  can 
say.  Won't  you  trust  me,  in  return,  to  do  my  best? 
There  are  things  it  is  hard  to  explain,  much  less  to 
justify;  but  your  generosity  makes  everything  easier. 
All  I  can  do  now  is  to  thank  you  from  my  soul  for  un 
derstanding.  Your  telling  me  that  you  wanted  me  to 
do  right  has  helped  me  beyond  expression.  If  ever 
there  is  a  hope  of  realizing  what  we  dreamed  of  you 
will  see  me  back  on  the  instant ;  and  I  haven't  yet  lost 
that  hope. 

She  read  the  letter  with  a  rush;  then  she  went 
over  and  over  it,  each  time  more  slowly  and  pains 
takingly.  It  was  so  beautifully  expressed  that  she 
found  it  almost  as  difficult  to  understand  as  the 
gentleman's  explanation  of  the  Bible  pictures  at 
Nettleton;  but  gradually  she  became  aware  that 
the  gist  of  its  meaning  lay  in  the  last  few  words. 
"If  ever  there  is  a  hope  of  realizing  what  we 
dreamed  of  .  .  ." 

[229] 


SUMMER 

But  then  he  wasn't  even  sure  of  that?  She  un 
derstood  now  that  every  word  and  every  reticence 
was  an  avowal  of  Annabel  Balch's  prior  claim.  It 
was  true  that  he  was  engaged  to  her,  and  that  he 
had  not  yet  found  a  way  of  breaking  his  engage 
ment. 

As  she  read  the  letter  over  Charity  understood 
what  it  must  have  cost  him  to  write  it.  He  was 
not  trying  to  evade  an  importunate  claim;  he  was 
honestly  and  contritely  struggling  between  oppos 
ing  duties.  She  did  not  even  reproach  him  in  her 
thoughts  for  having  concealed  from  her  that  he 
was  not  free :  she  could  not  see  anything  more  rep 
rehensible  in  his  conduct  than  in  her  own.  From 
the  first  she  had  needed  him  more  than  he  had 
wanted  her,  and  the  power  that  had  swept  them 
together  had  been  as  far  beyond  resistance  as  a 
great  gale  loosening  the  leaves  of  the  forest.  .  .  . 
Only,  there  stood  between  them,  fixed  and  upright 
in  the  general  upheaval,  the  indestructible  figure  of 
Annabel  Balch.  .  .  . 

Face  to  face  with  his  admission  of  the  fact,  she 

sat  staring  at  the  letter.     A  cold  tremor  ran  over 

her,  and  the  hard  sobs  struggled  up  into  her  throat 

and  shook  her  from  head  to  foot.     For  a  while  she 

[230] 


SUMMER 

was  caught  and  tossed  on  great  waves  of  anguish 
that  left  her  hardly  conscious  of  anything  but  the 
blind  struggle  against  their  assaults.  Then,  little 
by  little,  she  began  to  relive,  with  a  dreadful  poign 
ancy,  each  separate  stage  of  her  poor  romance. 
Foolish  things  she  had  said  came  back  to  her,  gay 
answers  Harney  had  made,  his  first  kiss  in  the 
darkness  between  the  fireworks,  their  choosing  the 
blue  brooch  together,  the  way  he  had  teased  her 
about  the  letters  she  had  dropped  in  her  flight  from  * 
the  evangelist.  All  these  memories,  and  a  thousand 
others,  hummed  through  her  brain  till  his  nearness 
grew  so  vivid  that  she  felt  his  fingers  in  her  hair, 
and  his  warm  breath  on  her  cheek  as  he  bent  her 
head  back  like  a  flower.  These  things  were  hers; 
they  had  passed  into  her  blood,  and  become  a  part 
of  her,  they  were  building  the  child  in  her  womb; 
it  was  impossible  to  tear  asunder  strands  of  life  so 
interwoven. 

The  conviction  gradually  strengthened  her,  and 
she  began  to  form  in  her  mind  the  first  words  of 
the  letter  she  meant  to  write  to  Harney.  She  wanted 
to  write  it  at  once,  and  with  feverish  hands  she 
began  to  rummage  in  her  drawer  for  a  sheet  of 
letter  paper.  But  there  was  none  left;  she  must 


SUMMER 

go  downstairs  to  get  it.  She  had  a  superstitious 
feeling  that  the  letter  must  be  written  on  the  in 
stant,  that  setting  down  her  secret  in  words  would 
bring  her  reassurance  and  safety;  and  taking  up 
her  candle  she  went  down  to  Mr.  Royall's  office. 

At  that  hour  she  was  not  likely  to  find  him  there : 
he  had  probably  had  his  supper  and  walked  over 
to  Carrick  Fry's.  She  pushed  open  the  door  of 
the  unlit  room,  and  the  light  of  her  lifted  candle 
fell  on  his  figure,  seated  in  the  darkness  in  his  high- 
backed  chair.  His  arms  lay  along  the  arms  of  the 
chair,  and  his  head  was  bent  a  little ;  but  he  lifted  it 
quickly  as  Charity  entered.  She  started  back  as 
their  eyes  met,  remembering  that  her  own  were  red 
with  weeping,  and  that  her  face  was  livid  with  the 
fatigue  and  emotion  of  her  journey.  But  it  was 
too  late  to  escape,  and  she  stood  and  looked  at  him 
in  silence. 

He  had  risen  from  his  chair,  and  came  toward  her 
with  outstretched  hands.  The  gesture  was  so  unex 
pected  that  she  let  him  take  her  hands  in  his  and 
they  stood  thus,  without  speaking,  till  Mr.  Royall 
said  gravely :  "Charity — was  you  looking  for  me  ?" 

She  freed  herself  abruptly  and  fell  back. 
"Me?  No "  She  set  down  the  candle  on 


SUMMER 

his  desk.  "I  wanted  some  letter-paper,  that's  all." 
His  face  contracted,  and  the  bushy  brows  jutted 
forward  over  his  eyes.  Without  answering  he 
opened  the  drawer  of  the  desk,  took  out  a  sheet  of 
paper  and  an  envelope,  and  pushed  them  toward 
her.  "Do  you  want  a  stamp  too  ?"  he  asked. 

She  nodded,  and  he  gave  her  the  stamp.  As  he 
did  so  she  felt  that  he  was  looking  at  her  intently, 
and  she  knew  that  the  candle  light  flickering  up  on 
her  white  face  must  be  distorting  her  swollen  fea 
tures  and  exaggerating  the  dark  rings  about  her 
eyes.  She  snatched  up  the  paper,  her  reassurance 
dissolving  under  his  pitiless  gaze,  in  which  she 
seemed  to  read  the  grim  perception  of  her  state, 
and  the  ironic  recollection  of  the  day  when,  in  that 
very  room,  he  had  offered  to  compel  Harney  to 
marry  her.  His  look  seemed  to  say  that  he  knew 
she  had  taken  the  paper  to  write  to  her  lover,  who 
had  left  her  as  he  had  warned  her  she  would  be 
left.  She  remembered  the  scorn  with  which  she 
had  turned  from  him  that  day,  and  knew,  if  he 
guessed  the  truth,  what  a  list  of  old  scores  it  must 
settle.  She  turned  and  fled  upstairs ;  but  when  she 
got  back  to  her  room  all  the  words  that  had  been  ^ 
waiting  had  vanished.  .  .  . 

[233] 


VV 
SUMMER 

)  If  she  could  have  gone  to  Harney  it  would  have 
been  different;  she  would  only  have  had  to  show 
herself  to  let  his  memories  speak  for  her.  But  she 
had  no  money  left,  and  there  was  no  one  from 
whom  she  could  have  borrowed  enough  for  such  a 
journey.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  write, 
and  await  his  reply.  For  a  long  time  she  sat  bent 
above  the  blank  page ;  but  she  found  nothing  to  say 
that  really  expressed  what  she  was  feeling.  .  .  . 

\^~ ' 

Harney  had  written  that  she  had  made  it  easier 
for  him,  and  she  was  glad  it  was  so;  she  did  not 
want  to  make  things  hard.  She  knew  she 
had  it  in  her  power  to  do  that;  she  held  his  fate 
in  her  hands.  All  she  had  to  do  was  to  tell  him  the 
truth;  but  that  was  the  very  fact  that  held  her 
back.  .  .  .  Her  five  minutes  face  to  face  with  Mr. 
Royall  had  stripped  her  of  her  last  illusion,  and 
brought  her  back  to  North  Dormer's  point  of  view. 
Distinctly  and  pitilessly  there  rose  before  her  the 
fate  of  the  girl  who  was  married  "to  make  things 
right."  She  had  seen  too  many  village  love-stories 
end  in  that  way.  Poor  Rose  Coles's  miserable  mar 
riage  was  of  the  number;  and  what  good  had  come 
of  it  for  her  or  for  Halston  Skeff  ?  They  had  hated 
each  other  from  the  day  the  minister  married  them ; 

[234] 


SUMMER 

and  whenever  old  Mrs.  Skeff  had  a  fancy  to  humili 
ate  her  daughter-in-law  she  had  only  to  say: 
"Who'd  ever  think  the  baby's  only  two  ?  And  for 
a  seven  months'  child — ain't  it  a  wonder  what  a 
size  he  is?"  North  Dormer  had  treasures  of  in 
dulgence  for  brands  in  the  burning,  but  only  deri 
sion  for  those  who  succeeded  in  getting  snatched 
from  it;  and  Gharity  had  always  understood  Julia 
Hawes's  refusal  to  be  snatched.  .  .  . 

Only — was  there  no  alternative  but  Julia's  ?  Her 
soul  recoiled  from  the  vision  of  the  white-faced, 
woman  among  the  plush  sofas  and  gilt  frames.  In 
the  established  order  of  things  as  she  knew  them 
she  saw  no  place  for  her  individual  adventure.  .  .  . 

She  sat  in  her  chair  without  undressing  till  faint 
grey  streaks  began  to  divide  the  black  slats  of  the 
shutters.  Then  she  stood  up  and  pushed  them  open, 
letting  in  the  light.  The  coming  of  a  new  day 
brought  a  sharper  consciousness  of  ineluctable  real 
ity,  and  with  it  a  sense  of  the  need  of  action.  She 
looked  at  herself  in  the  glass,  and  saw  her  face, 
white  in  the  autumn  dawn,  with  pinched  cheeks  and 
dark-ringed  eyes,  and  all  the  marks  of  her  state 
that  she  herself  would  never  have  noticed,  but  that 
Dr.  Merkle's  diagnosis  had  made  plain  to  her.  She 

[235] 


SUMMER 

could  not  hope  that  those  signs  would  escape  the 
watchful  village;  even  before  her  figure  lost  its 
shape  she  knew  her  face  would  betray  her. 

Leaning  from  her  window  she  looked  out  on  the 
dark  and  empty  scene;  the  ashen  houses  with  shut 
tered  windows,  the  grey  road  climbing  the  slope  to 
the  hemlock  belt  above  the  cemetery,  and  the  heavy 
mass  of  the  Mountain  black  against  a  rainy  sky. 
To  the  east  a  space  of  light  was  broadening  above 
the  forest;  but  over  that  also  the  clouds  hung. 
Slowly  her  gaze  travelled  across  the  fields  to  the 
rugged  curve  of  the  hills.  She  had  looked  out  so 
often  on  that  lifeless  circle,  and  wondered  if  any 
thing  could  ever  happen  to  anyone  who  was  en- 
/  closed  in  it.  ... 

*  Almost  without  conscious  thought  her  decision 

had  been  reached;  as  her  eyes  had  followed  the 
circle  of  the  hills  her  mind  had  also  travelled  the 
old  round.  She  supposed  it  was  something  in  her 
blood  that  made  the  Mountain  the  only  answer  to 
her  questioning,  the  inevitable  escape  from  all  that 
hemmed  her  in  and  beset  her.  At  any  rate  it  began 
to  loom  against  the  rainy  dawn ;  and  the  longer  she 
looked  at  it  the  more  clearly  she  understood  that 
now  at  last  she  was  really  going  there. 

[236] 


XVI 

THE  rain  held  off,  and  an  hour  later,  when 
she  started,  wild  gleams  of  sunlight  were 
blowing  across  the  fields. 

After  Harney's  departure  she  had  returned  her 
bicycle  to  its  owner  at  Creston,  and  she  was  not  sure 
of  being  able  to  walk  all  the  way  to  the  Mountain. 
The  deserted  house  was  on  the  road;  but  the  idea 
of  spending  the  night  there  was  unendurable,  and 
she  meant  to  try  to  push  on  to  Hamblin,  where  she 
could  sleep  under  a  wood-shed  if  her  strength  should 
fail  her.  Her  preparations  had  been  made  with 
quiet  forethought.  Before  starting  she  had  forced 
herself  to  swallow  a  glass  of  milk  and  eat  a  piece 
of  bread;  and  she  had  put  in  her  canvas  satchel 
a  little  packet  of  the  chocolate  that  Harney  always 
carried  in  his  bicycle  bag.  She  wanted  above  all 
to  keep  up  her  strength,  and  reach  her  destination 
without  attracting  notice.  .  .  . 

Mile  by  mile  she  retraced  the  road  over  which 
she  had  so  often  flown  to  her  lover.  When  she 

[237] 


SUMMER 

reached  the  turn  where  the  wood-road  branched  off 
from  the  Creston  highway  she  remembered  the  Gos 
pel  tent — long  since  folded  up  and  transplanted — 
and  her  start  of  involuntary  terror  when  the  fat 
evangelist  had  said :  "Your  Saviour  knows  every 
thing.  Come  and  confess  your  guilt."  There  was 
no  sense  of  guilt  in  her  now,  but  only  a  desperate 
desire  to  defend  her  secret  from  irreverent  eyes,  and 
begin  life  again  among  people  to  whom  the  harsh 
code  of  the  village  was  unknown.  The  impulse  did 
not  shape  itself  in  thought:  she  only  knew  she 
must  save  her  baby,  and  hide  hefself  with  it 
somewhere  where  no  one  would  ever  come  to  trouble 
them. 

She  walked  on  and  on,  growing  more  heavy- 
footed  as  the  day  advanced.  It  seemed  a  cruel 
chance  that  compelled  her  to  retrace  every  step  of 
the  way  to  the  deserted  house;  and  when  she  came 
in  sight  of  the  orchard,  and  the  silver-gray  roof 
slanting  crookedly  through  the  laden  branches,  her 
strength  failed  her  and  she  sat  down  by  the  road 
side.  She  sat  there  a  long  time,  trying  to  gather  the 
courage  to  start  again,  and  walk  past  the  broken 
gate  and  the  untrimmed  rose-bushes  strung  with 
scarlet  hips.  A  few  drops  of  rain  were  falling, 

[238] 


SUMMER 

and  she  thought  of  the  warm  evenings  when  she  and 
Harney  had  sat  embraced  in  the  shadowy  room, 
and  the  noise  of  summer  showers  on  the  roof  had 
rustled  through  their  kisses.  At  length  she  under 
stood  that  if  she  stayed  any  longer  the  rain  might 
compel  her  to  take  shelter  in  the  house  overnight, 
and  she  got  up  and  walked  on,  averting  her  eyes  as 
she  came  abreast  of  the  white  gate  and  the  tangled 
garden. 

The  hours  wore  on,  and  she  walked  more  and 
more  slowly,  pausing  now  and  then  to  rest,  and  to 
eat  a  little  bread  and  an  apple  picked  up  from  the 
roadside.  Her  body  seemed  to  grow  heavier  with 
every  yard  of  the  way,  and  she  wondered  how  she 
would  be  able  to  carry  her  child  later,  if  already  he 
laid  such  a  burden  on  her.  ...  A  fresh  wind  had 
sprung  up,  scattering  the  rain  and  blowing  down 
keenly  from  the  mountain.  Presently  the  clouds 
lowered  again,  and  a  few  white  darts  struck  her  in 
the  face :  it  was  the  first  snow  falling  over  Hamblin. 
The  roofs  of  the  lonely  village  were  only  half  a  mile 
ahead,  and  she  was  resolved  to  push  beyond  it,  and 
try  to  reach  the  Mountain  that  night.  She  had  no 
clear  plan  of  action,  except  that,  once  in  the  settle 
ment,  she  meant  to  look  for  Lift  Hyatt,  and  get 
[239] 


SUMMER 

him  to  take  her  to  her  mother.  She  herself  had 
been  born  as  her  own  baby  was  going  to  be  born; 
and  whatever  her  mother's  subsequent  life  had  been, 
she  could  hardly  help  remembering  the  past,  and 
receiving  a  daughter  who  was  facing  the  trouble  she 
had  known. 

Suddenly  the  deadly  faintness  came  over  her  once 
more  and  she  sat  down  on  the  bank  and  leaned  her 
head  against  a  tree-trunk.  The  long  noad  and  the 
cloudy  landscape  vanished  from  her  eyes,  and  for 
a  time  she  seemed  to  be  circling  about  in  some  ter 
rible  wheeling  darkness.  Then  that  too  faded. 

She  opened  her  eyes,  and  saw  a  buggy  drawn  up 
beside  her,  and  a  man  who  had  jumped  down  from 
it  and  was  gazing  at  her  with  a  puzzled  face. 
Slowly  consciousness  came  back,  and  she  saw  that 
the  man  was  Liff  Hyatt. 

She  was  dimly  aware  that  he  was  asking  her 
something,  and  she  looked  at  him  in  silence,  trying 
to  find  strength  to  speak.  At  length  her  voice  stirred 
in  her  throat,  and  she  said  in  a  whisper :  "I'm  going 
up  the  Mountain." 

"Up  the  Mountain?"  he  repeated,  drawing  aside 
a  little;  and  as  he  moved  she  saw  behind  him,  in 
the  buggy,  a  heavily  coated  figure  with  a  familiar 
[240] 


SUMMER 

I  pink  face  and  gold  spectacles  on  the  bridge  of  a 
I  Grecian  nose. 

c'Charity!  What  on  earth  are  you  doing  here?" 
Mr.  Miles  exclaimed,  throwing  the  reins  on  the 
horse's  back  and  scrambling  down  from  the  buggy. 

She  lifted  her  heavy  eyes  to  his.  "I'm  going  to 
•see  my  mother." 

The  two  men  glanced  at  each  other,  and  for  a 
moment  neither  of  them  spoke. 

Then  Mr.  Miles  said:  "You  look  ill,  my  dear, 
and  it's  a  long  way.  Do  you  think  it's  wise  ?" 

Charity  stood  up.     "I've  got  to  go  to  her." 

A  vague  mirthless  grin  contracted  Lift"  Hyatt's 
face,  and  Mr.  Miles  again  spoke  uncertainly.  "You 
know,  then — you'd  been  told?" 

She  stared  at  him.  "I  don't  know  what  you  mean. 
I  want  to  go  to  her." 

Mr.  Miles  was  examining  her  thoughtfully.  She 
fancied  she  saw  a  change  in  his  expression,  and 
the  blood  rushed  to  her  forehead.  "I  just  want  to 
go  to  her,"  she  repeated. 

He  laid  his  hand  on  her  arm.  "My  child,  your 
mother  is  dying.  Liff  Hyatt  came  down  to  fetch 
me.  .  .  .  Get  in  and  come  with  us." 

He  helped  her  up  to  the  seat  at  his  side,  Liff 
16  [241] 


SUMMER 

,  • 

Hyatt  clambered  in  at  the  back,  and  they  drove  off 
toward  Hamblin.  At  first  Charity  had  hardly 
grasped  what  Mr.  Miles  was  saying;  the  physical 
relief  of  finding  herself  seated  in  the  buggy,  and 
securely  on  her  road  to  the  Mountain,  effaced  the 
impression  of  his  words.  But  as  her  head  cleared 
she  began  to  understand.  She  knew  the  Mountain 
had  but  the  most  infrequent  intercourse  with  the 
valleys;  she  had  often  enough  heard  it  said  that, 
no  one  ever  went  up  there  except  the  minister,  when 
someone  was  dying.  And  now  it  was  her  mother 
who  was  dying  .  .  .  and  she  would  find  herself  as 
much  alone  on  the  Mountain  as  anywhere  else  in 
the  world.  The  sense  of  unescapable  isolation  was 
all  she  could  feel  for  the  moment;  then  she  began 
to  wonder  at  the  strangeness  of  its  being  Mr.  Miles 
who  had  undertaken  to  perform  this  grim  errand. 
He  did  not  seem  in  the  least  like  the  kind  of  man 
who  would  care  to  go  up  the  Mountain.  But  here  he 
was  at  her  side,  guiding  the  horse  with  a  firm  hand, 
and  bending  on  her  the  kindly  gleam  of  his  spec 
tacles,  as  if  there  were  nothing  unusual  in  their  be 
ing  together  in  such  circumstances. 

For  a  while  she  found  it  impossible  to  speak,  and 
he  seemed  to  understand  this,  and  made  no  attempt 
[242] 


SUMMER 

to  question  her.  But  presently  she  felt  her  tears 
rise  and  flow  down  over  her  drawn  cheeks ;  and  he 
must  have  seen  them  too,  for  he  laid  his  hand  on 
hers,  and  said  in  a  low  voice :  "Won't  you  tell  me 
what  is  troubling  you?" 

She  shook  her  head,  and  he  did  not  insist:  but 
after  a  while  he  said,  in  the  same  low  tone,  so  that 
they  should  not  be  overheard :  "Charity,  what  do 
you  know  of  your  childhood,  before  you  came  down 
to  North  Dormer?" 

She  controlled  herself,  and  answered:  "Nothing 
only  what  I  heard  Mr.  Royall  say  one  day.  He  said 
he  brought  me  down  because  my  father  went  to 
prison." 

"And  you've  never  been  up  there  since  ?" 

"Never." 

Mr.  Miles  was  silent  again,  then  he  said:  "I'm 
glad  you're  coming  with  me  now.  Perhaps  we  may 
find  your  mother  alive,  and  she  may  know  that  you 
have  come." 

They  had  reached  Hamblin,  where  the  snow-flurry 
had  left  white  patches  in  the  rough  grass  on  the 
roadside,  and  in  the  angles  of  the  roofs  facing 
north.  It  was  a  poor  bleak  village  under  the  granite 
flank  of  the  Mountain,  and  as  soon  as  they  left  it 

[243] 


SUMMER 

they  began  to  climb.    The  road  was  steep  and  full 
of  ruts,  and  the  horse  settled  down  to  a  walk  whilt 
they  mounted  and  mounted,  the  world  dropping, 
away  below  them  in  great  mottled  stretches  of  for 
est  and  field,  and  stormy  dark  blue  distances. 

Charity  had  often  had  visions  of  this  ascent  of  I 
the  Mountain  but  she  had  not  known  it  would  re 
veal  so  wide  a  country,  and  the  sight  of  those  strange 
lands  reaching  away  on  every  side  gave  her  a  new 
sense  of  Harney's  remoteness.  She  knew  he  must1 
be  miles  and  miles  beyond  the  last  range  of  hills 
that  seemed  to  be  the  outmost  verge  of  things,  and 
she  wondered  how  she  had  ever  dreamed  of  going 
to  New  York  to  find  him.  .  .  . 

As  the  road  mounted  the  country  grew  bleaker, 
and  they  drove  across  fields  of  faded  mountain  grass 
bleached  by  long  months  beneath  the  snow.  In  the 
hollows  a  few  white  birches  trembled,  or  a  moun 
tain  ash  lit  its  scarlet  clusters;  but  only  a  scant 
growth  of  pines  darkened  the  granite  ledges.  The 
wind  was  blowing  fiercely  across  the  open  slopes; 
the  horse  faced  it  with  bent  head  and  straining 
flanks,  and  now  and  then  the  buggy  swayed  so  that 
Charity  had  to  clutch  its  side. 

Mr.  Miles  had  not  spoken  again;  he  seemed  to 
[244] 


SUMMER 

understand  that  she  wanted  to  be  left  alone.  After 
a  while  the  track  they  were  following  forked,  and 
he  pulled  up  the  horse,  as  if  uncertain  of  the  way. 
Lift  Hyatt  craned  his  head  around  from  the  back, 

and  shouted  against  the  wind :  "Left "  and  they 

turned  into  a  stunted  pine-wood  and  began  to  drive 
down  the  other  side  of  the  Mountain. 

A  mile  or  two  farther  on  they  came  out  on  a 
clearing  where  two  or  three  low  houses  lay  in  stony 
j  fields,  crouching  among  the  rocks  as  if  to  brace 
themselves  against  the  wind.  They  were  hardly 
more  than  sheds,  built  of  logs  anJ.  rough  boards, 
with  tin  stove-pipes  sticking  out  of  their  roofs.  The 
sun  was  setting,  and  dusk  had  already  fallen  on 
the  lower  world,  but  a  yellow  glare  still  lay  on  the 
lonely  hillside  and  the  crouching  houses.  The  next 
moment  it  faded  and  left  the  landscape  in  dark 
autumn  twilight. 

"Over  there,"  Liff  called  out,  stretching  his  long 
arm  over  Mr.  Miles's  shoulder.  The  clergyman 
turned  to  the  left,  across  a  bit  of  bare  ground  over 
grown  with  docks  and  nettles,  and  stopped  before 
the  most  ruinous  of  the  sheds.  A  stove-pipe  reached 
its  crooked  arm  out  of  one  window,  and  the  broken 
panes  of  the  other  were  stuffed  with  rags  and  paper. 

[245] 


SUMMER 

In  contrast  to  such  a  dwelling  the  brown  house  in 
the  swamp  might  have  stood  for  the  home  of  plenty. 

As  the  buggy  drew  up  two  or  three  mongrel  dogs 
jumped  out  of  the  twilight  with  a  great  barking,  and 
a  young  man  slouched  to  the  door  and  stood  there 
staring.  In  the  twilight  Chanty  saw  that  his  face 
had  the  same  sodden  look  as  Bash  Hyatt's,  the  day 
she  had  seen  him  sleeping  by  the  stove.  He  made 
no  effort  to  silence  the  dogs,  but  leaned  in  the  door, 
as  if  roused  from  a  drunken  lethargy,  while  Mr. 
Miles  got  out  of  the  buggy. 

"Is  it  here?"  the  clergyman  asked  Liff  in  a  low 
voice;  and  Liff  nodded. 

Mr.  Miles  turned  to  Charity.  "Just  hold  the  horse 
a  minute,  my  dear:  I'll  go  in  first,"  he  said,  putting 
the  reins  in  her  hands.  She  took  them  passively, 
and  sat  staring  straight  ahead  of  her  at  the  darken 
ing  scene  while  Mr.  Miles  and  Liff  Hyatt  went  up 
to  the  house.  They  stood  a  few  minutes  talking 
with  the  man  in  the  door,  and  then  Mr.  Miles  came 
back.  As  he  came  close,  Charity  saw  that  his  smooth 
pink  face  wore  a  frightened  solemn  look. 

"Your  mother  is  dead,  Charity;  you'd  better  come 
with  me,"  he  said. 

She  got  down  and  followed  him  while  Liff  led  the 

[246] 


SUMMER 

horse  away.  As  she  approached  the  door  she  said 
to  herself :  "This  is  where  I  was  born  .  .  .  this  is 
where  I  belong.  .  .  ."  She  had  said  it  to  herself 
often  enough  as  she  looked  across  the  sunlit  val 
leys  at  the  Mountain ;  but  it  had  meant  nothing  then, 
and  now  it  had  become  a  reality.  Mr.  Miles  took 
her  gently  by  the  arm,  and  they  entered  what  ap 
peared  to  be  the  only  room  in  the  house.  It  was 
so  dark  that  she  could  just  discern  a  group  of  a 
dozen  people  sitting  or  sprawling  about  a  table  made 
of  boards  laid  across  two  barrels.  They  looked  up 
listlessly  as  Mr.  Miles  and  Charity  came  in,  and  a 
woman's  thick  voice  said:  "Here's  the  preacher." 
But  no  one  moved. 

Mr.  Miles  paused  and  looked  about  him;  then 
he  turned  to  the  young  man  who  had  met  them 
at  the  door. 

"Is  the  body  here?"  he  asked. 

The  young  man,  instead  of  answering,  turned  his 
head  toward  the  group.  "Where's  the  candle?  I 
tole  yer  to  bring  a  candle,"  he  said  with  sudden 
harshness  to  a  girl  who  was  lolling  against  the 
table.  She  did  not  answer,  but  another  man  got 
up  and  took  from  some  corner  a  candle  stuck  into 
a  bottle. 

[247] 


SUMMER 

"How'll  I  light  it?      The  stove's  out,"  the  girl  j 
grumbled. 

Mr.  Miles  fumbled  under  his  heavy  wrappings  and  ! 
drew  out  a  match-box.     He  held  a  match  to  the 
candle,  and  in  a  moment  or  two  a  faint  circle  of 
light  fell  on  the  pale  aguish  heads  that  started  out 
of  the  shadow  like  the  heads  of  nocturnal  animals. 

"Mary's  over  there,"  someone  said;  and  Mr. 
Miles,  taking  the  bottle  in  his  hand,  passed  behind 
the  table.  Charity  followed  him,  and  they  stood  be 
fore  a  mattress  on  the  floor  in  a  corner  of  the  room. 
A  woman  lay  on  it,  but  she  did  not  look  like  a 
dead  woman;  she  seemed  to  have  fallen  across 
her  squalid  bed  in  a  drunken  sleep,  and  to  have  been 
left  lying  where  she  fell,  in  her  ragged  disordered 
clothes.  One  arm  was  flung  above  her  head,  one 
leg  drawn  up  under  a  torn  skirt  that  left  the  other 
bare  to  the  knee:  a  swollen  glistening  leg  with  a 
ragged  stocking  rolled  down  about  the  ankle.  The 
woman  lay  on  her  back,  her  eyes  staring  up  un- 
blinkingly  at  the  candle  that  trembled  in  Mr.  Miles' s 
hand. 

"She  jus'  dropped  off,"  a  woman  said,  over  the 
shoulder  of  the  others ;  and  the  young  man  added : 
"I  jus'  come  in  and  found  her." 

[248] 


SUMMER 

An  elderly  man  with  lank  hair  and  a  feeble  grin 
pushed  between  them.  "It  was  like  this :  I  says  to 
her  on'y  the  night  before :  if  you  don't  take  and 
quit,  I  says  to  her  .  .  ." 

Someone  pulled  him  back  and  sent  him  reeling 
against  a  bench  along  the  wall,  where  he  dropped 
down  muttering  his  unheeded  narrative. 

There  was  a  silence ;  then  the  young  woman  who 
had  been  lolling  against  the  table  suddenly  parted 
the  group,  and  stood  in  front  of  Charity.  She  was 
healthier  and  robuster  looking  than  the  others,  and 
her  weather-beaten  face  had  a  certain  sullen  beauty. 

"Who's  the  girl?  Who  brought  her  here?"  she 
said,  fixing  her  eyes  mistrustfully  on  the  young  man 
who  had  rebuked  her  for  not  having  a  candle  ready. 

Mr.  Miles  spoke.  "I  brought  her;  she  is  Mary 
Hyatt's  daughter." 

"What?  Her  too?"  the  girl  sneered;  and  the 
young  man  turned  on  her  with  an  oath.  "Shut  your 
mouth,  damn  you,  or  get  out  of  here/'  he  said;  then 
he  relapsed  into  his  former  apathy,  and  dropped 
down  on  the  bench,  leaning  his  head  against  the  wall. 

Mr.  Miles  had  set  the  candle  on  the  floor  and 
taken  off  his  heavy  coat.     He  turned  to  Charity. 
"Come  and  help  me,"  he  said. 
[249] 


SUMMER 

He  knelt  down  by  the  mattress,  and  pressed  the 
lids  over  the  dead  woman's  eyes.  Charity,  trem 
bling  and  sick,  knelt  beside  him,  and  tried  to  com 
pose  her  mother's  body.  She  drew  the  stocking 
over  the  dreadful  glistening  leg,  and  pulled  the  skirt 
down  to  the  battered  upturned  boots.  As  she  did 
so,  she  looked  at  her  mother's  face,  thin  yet  swol 
len,  with  lips  parted  in  a  frozen  gasp  above  the 
broken  teeth.  There  was  no  sign  in  it  of  anything 
human:  she  lay  there  like  a  dead  dog  in  a  ditch. 
Charity's  hands  grew  cold  as  they  touched  her. 

Mr.  Miles  drew  the  woman's  arms  across  her 
breast  and  laid  his  coat  over  her.  Then  he  covered 
her  face  with  his  handkerchief,  and  placed  the  bot 
tle  with  the  candle  in  it  at  her  head.  Having  done 
this  he  stood  up. 

"Is  there  no  coffin?"  he  asked,  turning  to  the 
group  behind  him. 

There  was  a  moment  of  bewildered  silence ;  then 
the  fierce  girl  spoke  up.  "You'd  oughter  brought  it 
with  you.  Where'd  we  get  one  here,  I'd  like  ter 
know?" 

Mr.  Miles,  looking  at  the  others,  repeated:  "Is 
it  possible  you  have  no  coffin  ready?'7 

"That's  what  I  say :  them  that  has  it  sleeps  bet- 
[250] 


SUMMER 

ter,"  an  old  woman  murmured.  "But  then  she 
never  had  no  bed.  .  .  ." 

"And  the  stove  warn't  hers,"  said  the  lank-haired 
man,  on  the  defensive. 

Mr.  Miles  turned  away  from  them  and  moved 
a  few  steps  apart.  He  had  drawn  a  book  from  his 
pocket,  and  after  a  pause  he  opened  it  and  began 
to  read,  holding  the  book  at  arm's  length  and  low 
down,  so  that  the  pages  caught  the  feeble  light. 
Charity  had  remained  on  her  knees  by  the  mattress  : 
now  that  her  mother's  face  was  covered  it  was  easier 
to  stay  near  her,  and  avoid  the  sight  of  the  living 
faces  which  too  horribly  showed  by  what  stages 
hers  had  lapsed  into  death. 

"I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life,"  Mr.  Miles 
began;  "he  that  believeth  in  me,  though  he  were 
dead,  yet  shall  he  live.  .  .  .  Though  after  my  skin 
worms  destroy  my  body,  yet  in  my  flesh  shall  I 
see  God.  .  .  ." 

In  my  flesh  shall  I  see  God!  Charity  thought  of 
the  gaping  mouth  and  stony  eyes  under  the  hand 
kerchief,  and  of  the  glistening  leg  over  which  she 
had  drawn  the  stocking.  .  .  . 

"We  brought  nothing  into  this  world  and  we 
shall  take  nothing  out  of  it " 


SUMMER 

There  was  a  sudden  muttering  and  a  scuffle  at 
the  back  of  the  group.  "I  brought  the  stove,"  said 
the  elderly  man  with  lank  hair,  pushing  his  way  be 
tween  the  others.  "I  wen'  down  to  Creston'n  bought 
it  ...  n'  I  got  a  right  to  take  it  outer  here  .  .  . 
n'  I'll  lick  any  feller  says  I  ain't.  .  .  ." 

"Sit  down,  damn  you!"  shouted  the  tall  youth 
who  had  been  drowsing  on  the  bench  against  the 
wall. 

"For  man  walketh  in  a  vain  shadow,  and  dis- 
quieteth  himself  in  vain;  he  heapeth  up  riches  and 
cannot  tell  who  shall  gather  them  ..." 

"Well,  it  are  his,"  a  woman  in  the  background 
interjected  in  a  frightened  whine. 

The  tall  youth  staggered  to  his  feet.  "If  you 
don't  hold  your  mouths  I'll  turn  you  all  out  o'  here, 
the  whole  lot  of  you,"  he  cried  with  many  oaths. 
"G'wan,  minister  .  .  .  don't  let  'em  faze  you.  .  .  ." 

"Now  is  Christ  risen  from  the  dead  and  become 
the  first-fruits  of  them  that  slept.  .  .  .  Behold,  I 
show  you  a  mystery.  We  shall  not  all  sleep,  but  we 
shall  all  be  changed,  in  a  moment,  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye,  at  the  last  trump.  .  .  .  For  this  cor 
ruptible  must  put  on  incorruption  and  this  mortal 
must  put  on  immortality.  So  when  this  corruption 
[252] 


SUMMER 

shall  have  put  on  incorruption,  and  when  this  mor 
tal  shall  have  put  on  immortality,  then  shall  be 
brought  to  pass  the  saying  that  is  written,  Death 
is  swallowed  up  in  Victory.  .  .  ." 

One  by  one  the  mighty  words  fell  on  Charity's 
bowed  head,  soothing  the  horror,  subduing  the  tu 
mult,  mastering  her  as  they  mastered  the  drink- 
dazed  creatures  at  her  back.  Mr.  Miles  read  to 
the  last  word,  and  then  closed  the  book. 

"Is  the  grave  ready?"  he  asked. 

Liff  Hyatt,  who  had  come  in  while  he  was  read 
ing,  nodded  a  "Yes,"  and  pushed  forward  to  the 
side  of  the  mattress.  The  young  man  on  the  bench 
who  seemed  to  assert  some  sort  of  right  of  kinship 
with  the  dead  woman,  got  to  his  feet  again,  and  the 
proprietor  of  the  stove  joined  him.  Between  them 
they  raised  up  the  mattress;  but  their  movements 
were  unsteady,  and  the  coat  slipped  to  the  floor,  re 
vealing  the  poor  body  in  its  helpless  misery.  Char 
ity,  picking  up  the  coat,  covered  her  mother  once 
more.  Liff  had  brought  a  lantern,  and  the  old 
woman  who  had  already  spoken  took  it  up,  and 
opened  the  door  to  let  the  little  procession  pass 
out.  The  wind  had  dropped,  and  the  night  was 
very  dark  and  bitterly  cold.  The  old  woman  walked 

[253] 


SUMMER 

ahead,  the  lantern  shaking  in  her  hand  and  spread 
ing  out  before  her  a  pale  patch  of  dead  grass  and 
coarse-leaved  weeds  enclosed  in  an  immensity  of 
blackness. 

Mr.  Miles  took  Charity  by  the  arm,  and  side 
by  side  they  walked  behind  the  mattress.  At  length 
the  old  woman  with  the  lantern  stopped,  and  Charity 
saw  the  light  fall  on  the  stooping  shoulders  of 
the  bearers  and  on  a  ridge  of  upheaved  earth  over 
which  they  were  bending.  Mr.  Miles  released  her 
arm  and  approached  the  hollow  on  the  other  side 
of  the  ridge;  and  while  the  men  stooped  down,  low 
ering  the  mattress  into  the  grave,  he  began  to  speak 
again. 

"Man  that  is  born  of  woman  hath  but  a  short 
time  to  live  and  is  full  of  misery.  .  .  .  He  cometh 
up  and  is  cut  down  ...  he  fleeth  as  it  were  a  shad 
ow.  .  .  .  Yet,  O  Lord  God  most  holy,  O  Lord 
most  mighty,  O  holy  and  merciful  Saviour,  deliver 
us  not  into  the  bitter  pains  of  eternal  death  .  .  ." 

"Easy  there  ...  is  she  down?"  piped  the  claim 
ant  to  the  stove ;  and  the  young  man  called  over  his 
shoulder:  "Lift  the  light  there,  can't  you?'* 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  the  light  floated 
uncertainly  over  the  open  grave.  Someone  bent 

[254] 


SUMMER 

iover  and  pulled  out  Mr.  Miles' s  coat ("No,  no — 

jleave  the  handkerchief/'  he  interposed) — and  then 
(Liff  Hyatt,  coming  forward  with  a  spade,  began  to 
shovel  in  the  earth. 

"Forasmuch  as  it  hath  pleased  Almighty  God  of 
His  great  mercy  to  take  unto  Himself  the  soul  of 
our  dear  sister  here  departed,  we  therefore  commit 
her  body  to  the  ground;  earth  to  earth,  ashes  to 
ashes,  dust  to  dust  .  .  ."  LifFs  gaunt  shoulders 
rose  and  bent  in  the  lantern  light  as  he  dashed  the 
clods  of  earth  into  the  grave.  "God — it's  froze 
a' ready,"  he  muttered,  spitting  into  his  palm  and 
passing  his  ragged  shirt-sleeve  across  his  perspir 
ing  face. 

"Through  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  who  shall 
change  our  vile  body  that  it  may  be  like  unto  His 
glorious  body,  according  to  the  mighty  working, 
whereby  He  is  able  to  subdue  all  things  unto  Him 
self  .  .  ."  The  last  spadeful  of  earth  fell  on  the 
vile  body  of  Mary  Hyatt,  and  Liff  rested  on  his 
spade,  his  shoulder  blades  still  heaving  with  the  ef 
fort. 

"Lord,  have  mercy  upon  us,  Christ  have  mercy 
upon  us,  Lord  have  mercy  upon  us.  .  .  ." 

Mr.  Miles  took  the  lantern  from  the  old  woman's 

[255] 


SUMMER 

hand  and  swept  its  light  across  the  circle  of  bleared 
faces.  "Now  kneel  down,  all  of  you,"  he  com 
manded,  in  a  voice  of  authority  that  Charity  had 
never  heard.  She  knelt  down  at  the  edge  of  the 
grave,  and  the  others,  stiffly  and  hesitatingly,  got 
to  their  knees  beside  her.  Mr.  Miles  knelt,  too. 
"And  now  pray  with  me — you  know  this  prayer," 
he  said,  and  he  began:  "Our  Father  which  art  ini 
Heaven  .  .  ."  One  or  two  of  the  women  falter- 
ingly  took  the  words  up,  and  when  he  ended,  the 
lank-haired  man  flung  himself  on  the  neck  of  the 
tall  youth.  "It  was  this  way,"  he  said.  "I  tole  her 
the  night  before,  I  says  to  her  .  .  ."  The  reminis 
cence  ended  in  a  sob. 

Mr.  Miles  had  been  getting  into  his  coat  again. 
He  came  up  to  Charity,  who  had  remained  pas 
sively  kneeling  by  the  rough  mound  of  earth. 
"My  child,  you  must  come.     It's  very  late." 
She  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  face:  he  seemed  to 
speak  out  of  another  world. 

"I  ain't  coming:  I'm  going  to  stay  here." 
"Here?    Where?    What  do  you  mean?" 
"These  are  my  folks.     I'm  going  to  stay  with 
them." 

Mr.  Miles  lowered  his  voice.    "But  it's  not  pos- 
[256] 


SUMMER 

sible — you  don't  know  what  you  are  doing.  You 
can't  stay  among  these  people :  you  must  come  with 
me/* 

She  shook  her  head  and  rose  from  her  knees. 
The  group  about  the  grave  had  scattered  in  the 
darkness,  but  the  old  woman  with  the  lantern  stood 
waiting.  Her  mournful  withered  face  was  not 
unkind,  and  Charity  went  up  to  her, 

"Have  you  got  a  place  where  I  can  lie  down 
for  the  night?"  she  asked.  Liff  came  up,  leading 
the  buggy  out  of  the  night.  He  looked  from  one 
to  the  other  with  his  feeble  smile.  "She's  my 
mother.  She'll  take  you  home,"  he  said;  and  he 
added,  raising  his  voice  to  speak  to  the  old  woman : 
"It's  the  girl  from  lawyer  Royall's — Mary's  girl 
.  .  .  you  remember.  .  .  ." 

The  woman  nodded  and  raised  her  sad  old  eyes 
to  Charity's.  When  Mr.  Miles  and  Liff  clambered 
into  the  buggy  she  went  ahead  with  the  lantern  to 
show  them  the  track  they  were  to  follow;  then  she 
turned  back,  and  in  silence  she  and  Charity  walked 
away  together  through  the  night. 


17 


XVII 

CHARITY  lay  on  the  floor  on  a  mattress,  as 
her  dead  mother's  body  had  lain.  The  room 
in  which  she  lay  was  cold  and  dark  and  low-ceil- 
inged,  and  even  poorer  and  barer  than  the  scene 
of  Mary  Hyatt's  earthly  pilgrimage.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  fireless  stove  Liff  Hyatt's  mother  slept 
on  a  blanket,  with  two  children — her  grandchildren, 
she  said — rolled  up  against  her  like  sleeping  pup 
pies.  They  had  their  thin  clothes  spread  over  them, 
having  given  the  only  other  blanket  to  their  guest. 

Through  the  small  square  of  glass  in  the  oppo 
site  wall  Charity  saw  a  deep  funnel  of  sky,  so  black, 
so  remote,  so  palpitating  with  frosty  stars  that  her 
very  soul  seemed  to  be  sucked  into  it.  Up  there 
somewhere,  she  supposed,  the  God  whom  Mr.  Miles 
had  invoked  was  waiting  for  'Mary  Hyatt  to  appear. 
What  a  long  flight  it  was!  And  what  would  she 
have  to  say  when  she  reached  Him? 

Charity's  bewildered  brain  laboured  with  the  at 
tempt  to  picture  her  mother's  past,  and  to  relate  it 

[258] 


SUMMER 

in  any  way  to  the  designs  of  a  just  but  merciful 
God;  but  it  was  impossible  to  imagine  any  link 
between  them.  She  herself  felt  as  remote  from 
the  poor  creature  she  had  seen  lowered  into  her 
hastily  dug  grave  as  if  the  height  of  the  heavens 
divided  them.  She  had  seen  poverty  and  misfortune 
in  her  life;  but  in  a  community  where  poor  thrifty 
Mrs.  Hawes  and  the  industrious  Ally  represented 
the  nearest  approach  to  destitution  there  was  noth 
ing  to  suggest  the  savage  misery  of  the  Mountain 
farmers. 

As  she  lay  there,  half-stunned  by  her  tragic  initia 
tion,  Charity  vainly  tried  to  think  herself  into  the 
life  about  her.  But  she  could  not  even  make  out 
what  relationship  these  people  bore  to  each  other, 
or  to  her  dead  mother;  they  seemed  to  be  herded 
together  in  a  sort  of  passive  promiscuity  in  which 
their  common  misery  was  the  strongest  link.  She 
tried  to  picture  to  herself  what  her  life  would  have 
been  if  she  had  grown  up  on  the  Mountain,  running 
wild  in  rags,  sleeping  on  the  floor  curled  up  against 
her  mother,  like  the  pale-faced  children  huddled 
against  old  Airs.  Hyatt,  and  turning  into  a  fierce 
bewildered  creature  like  the  girl  who  had  apostro 
phized  her  in  such  strange  words.  She  was  fright- 
[259] 


SUMMER 

ened  by  the  secret  affinity  she  had  felt  with 
this  girl,  and  by  the  light  it  threw  on  her 
own  beginnings.  Then  she  remembered  what  Mr. 
Royall  had  said  in  telling  her  story  to  Lucius 
Harney:  "Yes,  there  was  a  mother;  but  she  was 
glad  to  have  the  child  go.  She'd  have  given  her  to 
anybody.  ..." 

Well !  after  all,  was  her  mother  so  much  to  blame  ? 
Charity,  since  that  day,  had  always  thought  of 
her  as  destitute  of  all  human  feeling;  now  she 
seemed  merely  pitiful.  What  mother  would  not 
want  to  save  her  child  from  such  a  life?  Charity 
thought  of  the  future  of  her  own  child,  and  tears 
welled  into  her  aching  eyes,  and  ran  down  over 
her  face.  If  she  had  been  less  exhausted,  less  bur 
dened  with  his  weight,  she  would  have  sprung  up 
then  and  there  and  fled  away.  .  .  . 

The  grim  hours  of  the  night  dragged  themselves 
slowly  by,  and  at  last  the  sky  paled  and  dawn  threw 
a  cold  blue  beam  into  the  room.  She  lay  in  her 
corner  staring  at  the  dirty  floor,  the  clothes-line 
hung  with  decaying  rags,  the  old  woman  huddled 
against  the  cold  stove,  and  the  light  gradually 
spreading  across  the  wintry  world,  and  bringing 
with  it  a  new  day  in  which  she  would  have  to  live, 

[260] 


SUMMER 

to  choose,  to  act,  to  make  herself  a  place  among 
these  people — or  to  go  back  to  the  life  she  had  left. 
A  mortal  lassitude  weighed  on  her.  There  were 
moments  when  she  felt  that  all  she  asked  was  to  go 
on  lying  there  unnoticed ;  then  her  mind  revolted  at 
the  thought  of  becoming  one  of  the  miserable  herd 
from  which  she  sprang,  and  it  seemed  as  though,  to 
save  her  child  from  such  a  fate,  she  would  find 
strength  to  travel  any  distance,  and  bear  any  bur 
den  life  might  put  on  her. 

Vague  thoughts  of  Nettleton  flitted  through  her 
mind.  She  said  to  herself  that  she  would 
find  some  quiet  place  where  she  could  bear 
her  child,  and  give  it  to  decent  people  to  keep; 
and  then  she  would  go  out  like  Julia  Hawes  and 
earn  its  living  and  hers.  She  knew  that  girls  of  that 
kind  sometimes  made  enough  to  have  their  chil 
dren  nicely  cared  for ;  and  every  other  consideration 
disappeared  in  the  vision  of  her  baby,  cleaned  and 
combed  and  rosy,  and  hidden  away  somewhere 
where  she  could  run  in  and  kiss  it,  and  bring  it 
pretty  things  to  wear.  Anything,  anything  was  bet 
ter  than  to  add  another  life  to  the  nest  of  misery 
on  the  Mountain.  .  .  . 

The  old  woman  and  the  children  were  still  sleep- 
[261] 


SUMMER 

ing  when  Charity  rose  from  her  mattress.  Her  body 
was  stiff  with  cold  and  fatigue,  and  she  moved 
slowly  lest  her  heavy  steps  should  rouse  them.  She 
was  faint  with  hunger,  and  had  nothing  left  in 
her  satchel;  but  on  the  table  she  saw  the  half  of 
a  stale  loaf.  No  doubt  it  was  to  serve  as  the  break 
fast  of  old  Mrs.  Hyatt  and  the  children ;  but  Char 
ity  did  not  care;  she  had  her  own  baby  to  think 
of.  She  broke  off  a  piece  of  the  bread  and  ate  it 
greedily;  then  her  glance  fell  on  the  thin  faces 
of  the  sleeping  children,  and  filled  with  compunction 
she  rummaged  in  her  satchel  for  something  with 
which  to  pay  for  what  she  had  taken.  She  found 
one  of  the  pretty  chemises  that  Ally  had  made  for 
her,  with  a  blue  ribbon  run  through  its  edging.  It 
was  one  of  the  dainty  things  on  which  she  had 
squandered  her  savings,  and  as  she  looked  at  it  the 
blood  rushed  to  her  forehead.  She  laid  the  chemise 
on  the  table,  and  stealing  across  the  floor  lifted 
the  latch  and  went  out.  .  .  . 

The  morning  was  icy  cold  and  a  pale  sun  was 
just  rising  above  the  eastern  shoulder  of  the  Moun 
tain.  The  houses  scattered  on  the  hillside  lay  cold 
and  smokeless  under  the  sun-flecked  clouds,  and  not 
a  human  being  was  in  sight.  Charity  paused  on 
[262] 


SUMMER 

the  threshold  and  tried  to  discover  the  road  by 
which  she  had  come  the  night  before.  Across  the 
field  surrounding  Mrs.  Hyatt's  shanty  she  saw  the 
tumble-down  house  in  which  she  supposed  the  funeral 
service  had  taken  place.  The  trail  ran  across  the 
ground  between  the  two  houses  and  disappeared  in 
the  pine-wood  on  the  flank  of  the  Mountain;  and 
a  little  way  to  the  right,  under  a  wind-beaten  thorn, 
a  mound  of  fresh  earth  made  a  dark  spot  on  the 
fawn-coloured  stubble.  Charity  walked  across  the 
field  to  the  ground.  As  she  approached  it  she 
heard  a  bird's  note  in  the  still  air,  and  looking  up 
she  saw  a  brown  song-sparrow  perched  in  an  upper 
branch  of  the  thorn  above  the  grave.  She  stood  a 
minute  listening  to  his  small  solitary  song ;  then  she 
rejoined  the  trail  and  began  to  mount  the  hill  to 
the  pine-wood. 

Thus  far  she  had  been  impelled  by  the  blind  in 
stinct  of  flight;  but  each  step  seemed  to  bring  her 
nearer  to  the  realities  of  which  her  feverish  vigil 
had  given  only  a  shadowy  image.  Now  that  she 
walked  again  in  a  daylight  world,  on  the  way  back  to 
familiar  things,  her  imagination  moved  more  so-  V 
berly.  On  one  point  she  was  still  decided :  she  could 
not  remain  at  North  Dormer,  and  the  sooner  she 
[263] 


SUMMER 

got  away  from  it  the  better.  But  everything  be 
yond  was  darkness. 

As  she  continued  to  climb  the  air  grew  keener, 
and  when  she  passed  from  the  shelter  of  the  pines 
to  the  open  grassy  roof  of  the  Mountain  the  cold 
wind  of  the  night  before  sprang  out  on  her.  She 
bent  her  shoulders  and  struggled  on  against  it  for 
a  while;  but  presently  her  breath  failed,  and  she 
sat  down  under  a  ledge  of  rock  overhung  by  shiv 
ering  birches.  From  where  she  sat  she  saw  the 
trail  wandering  across  the  bleached  grass  in  the 
direction  of  Hamblin,  and  the  granite  wall  of  the 
Mountain  falling  away  to  infinite  distances.  On  that 
side  of  the  ridge  the  valleys  still  lay  in  wintry 
shadow ;  but  in  the  plain  beyond  the  sun  was  touch 
ing  village  roofs  and  steeples,  and  gilding  the  haze 
of  smoke  over  far-off  invisible  towns. 

Charity  felt  herself  a  mere  speck  in  the  lonely 
circle  of  the  sky.  The  events  of  the  last  two  days 
seemed  to  have  divided  her  forever  from  her  short 
dream  of  bliss.  Even  Harney's  image  had  been 
blurred  by  that  crushing  experience:  she  thought 
of  him  as  so  remote  from  her  that  he  seemed  hardly 
more  than  a  memory.  In  her  fagged  and  floating 
mind  only  one  sensation  had  the  weight  of  reality ; 

[264] 


SUMMER 

it  was  the  bodily  burden  of  her  child.  But  for  it 
she  would  have  felt  as  rootless  as  the  whiffs  of 
thistledown  the  wind  blew  past  her.  Her  child  was 
like  a  load  that  held  her  down,  and  yet  like  a  hand 
that  pulled  her  to  her  feet.  She  said  to  herself 
that  she  must  get  up  and  struggle  on.  ... 

Her  eyes  turned  back  to  the  trail  across  the  top 
of  the  Mountain,  and  in  the  distance  she  saw  a  buggy 
against  the  sky.  She  knew  its  antique  outline,  and 
the  gaunt  build  of  the  old  horse  pressing  forward 
with  lowered  head ;  and  after  a  moment  she  recog 
nized  the  heavy  bulk  of  the  man  who  held  the  reins. 
The  buggy  was  following  the  trail  and  making 
straight  for  the  pine-wood  through  which  she  had 
climbed;  and  she  knew  at  once  that  the  driver  was 
in  search  of  her.  Her  first  impulse  was  to  crouch 
down  under  the  ledge  till  he  had  passed;  but  the 
instinct  of  concealment  was  overruled  by  the  relief 
of  feeling  that  someone  was  near  her  in  the  awful 
emptiness.  She  stood  up  and  walked  toward  the 
buggy. 

Mr.  Royall  saw  her,  and  touched  the  horse  with 
the  whip.  A  minute  or  two  later  he  was  abreast 
of  Charity;  their  eyes  met,  and  without  speaking 
he  leaned  over  and  helped  her  up  into  the  buggy. 

[265] 


SUMMER 

She  tried  to  speak,  to  stammer  out  some  explana 
tion,  but  no  words  came  to  her;  and  as  he  drew 
the  cover  over  her  knees  he  simply  said :  "The  min 
ister  told  me  he'd  left  you  up  here,  so  I  come  up 
for  you/' 

He  turned  the  horse's  head,  and  they  began  to 
jog  back  toward  Hamblin.  Charity  sat  speechless, 
staring  straight  ahead  of  her,  and  Mr.  Royall  oc 
casionally  uttered  a  word  of  encouragement  to  the 
horse:  "Get  along  there,  Dan.  ...  I  gave  him  a 
rest  at  Hamblin;  but  I  brought  him  along  pretty 
quick,  and  it's  a  stiff  pull  up  here  against  the 
wind." 

As  he  spoke  it  occurred  to  her  for  the  first  time 
that  to  reach  the  top  of  the  Mountain  so  early 
he  must  have  left  North  Dormer  at  the  coldest  hour 
of  the  night,  and  have  travelled  steadily  but  for 
the  halt  at  Hamblin;  and  she  felt  a  softness  at  her 
heart  which  no  act  of  his  had  ever  produced  since 
he  had  brought  her  the  Crimson  Rambler  because 
she  had  given  up  boarding-school  to  stay  with 
him. 

After  an  interval  he  began  again :  "It  was  a  day 
just  like  this,  only  spitting  snow,  when  I  come  up 
here  for  you  the  first  time."  Then,  as  if  fearing 

[266] 


SUMMER 

that  she  might  take  his  remark  as  a  reminder  of 
past  benefits,  he  added  quickly:  "I  dunno's  you 
think  it  was  such  a  good  job,  either." 

"Yes,  I  do,"  she  murmured,  looking  straight 
ahead  of  her. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  tried " 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  and  she  could 
think  of  nothing  more  to  say. 

"Ho,  there,  Dan,  step  out,"  he  muttered,  jerking 
the  bridle.  "We  ain't  home  yet.— You  cold?"  he 
asked  abruptly. 

She  shook  her  head,  but  he  drew  the  cover  higher 
up,  and  stooped  to  tuck  it  in  about  the  ankles.  She 
continued  to  look  straight  ahead.  Tears  of  weari 
ness  and  weakness  were  dimming  her  eyes  and  be 
ginning  to  run  over,  but  she  dared  not  wipe  them 
away  lest  he  should  observe  the  gesture. 

They  drove  in  silence,  following  the  long  loops 
of  the  descent  upon  Hamblin,  and  Mr.  Royall  did 
not  speak  again  till  they  reached  the  outskirts  of  the 
village.  Then  he  let  the  reins  droop  on  the  dash 
board  and  drew  out  his  watch. 

"Charity,"  he  said,  "you  look  fair  done  up,  and 
North  Dormer's  a  goodish  way  off.  I've  figured  out 
that  we'd  do  better  to  stop  here  long  enough  for 

[267] 


SUMMER 

you  to  get  a  mouthful  of  breakfast  and  then  drive 
down  to  Creston  and  take  the  train." 

She  roused  herself  from  her  apathetic  musing. 
"The  train— what  train?" 

Mr.  Royall,  without  answering,  let  the  horse  jog 
on  till  they  reached  the  door  of  the  first  house 
in  the  village.  "This  is  old  Mrs.  Hobart's 
place,"  he  said.  "She'll  give  us  something  hot  to 
drink." 

Charity,  half  unconsciously,  found  herself  get 
ting  out  of  the  buggy  and  following  him  in  at  the 
open  door.  They  entered  a  decent  kitchen  with  a 
fire  crackling  in  the  stove.  An  old  woman  with 
a  kindly  face  was  setting  out  cups  and  saucers  on 
the  table.  She  looked  up  and  nodded  as  they  came 
in,  and  Mr.  Royall  advanced  to  the  stove,  clap 
ping  his  numb  hands  together. 

"Well,  Mrs.  Hobart,  you  got  any  breakfast  for 
this  young  lady?  You  can  see  she's  cold  and 
hungry." 

Mrs.  Hobart  smiled  on  Charity  and  took  a  tin 
coffee-pot  from  the  fire.  "My,  you  do  look  pretty 
mean,"  she  said  compassionately. 

Charity  reddened,  and  sat  down  at  the  table.  A 
feeling  of  complete  passiveness  had  once  more  come 

[268] 


SUMMER 

;  over  her,  and  she  was  conscious  only  of  the  pleasant 
'  animal  sensations  of  warmth  and  rest. 


Mrs.  Hobart^put  bread  and  milk  on  the  table, 
and  then  went  out  of  the  house:  Charity  saw  her 
leading  the  horse  away  to  the  barn  across  the  yard. 
She  did  not  come  back,  and  Mr.  Royall  and  Charity 
I  sat  alone  at  the  table  with  the  smoking  coffee  be 
tween  them.  He  poured  out  a  cup  for  her,  and  put 
a  piece  of  bread  in  the  saucer,  and  she  began  to 
eat. 

As  the  warmth  of  the  coffee  flowed  through  her 
veins  her  thoughts  cleared  and  she  began  to  feel 
like  a  living  being  again;  but  the  return  to  life 
was  so  painful  that  the  food  choked  in  her  throat 
and  she  sat  staring  down  at  the  table  in  silent 
anguish. 

After  a  while  Mr.  Royall  pushed  back  his  chair. 
"Now,  then,"  he  said,  "if  you're  a  mind  to  go 

along "  She  did  not  move,  and  he  continued : 

"We  can  pick  up  the  noon  train  for  Nettleton  if  you 
say  so." 

The  words  sent  the  blood  rushing  to  her  face, 
and  she  raised  her  startled  eyes  to  his.  He  was 
standing  on  the  other  side  of  the  table  looking 
at  her  kindly  and  gravely;  and  suddenly  she  un- 

[269] 


SUMMER 

derstood  what  he  was  going  to  say.  She  continued 
to  sit  motionless,  a  leaden  weight  upon  her  lips. 

"You  and  me  have  spoke  some  hard  things  to 
each  other  in  our  time,  Charity;  and  there's  no  good 
that  I  can  see  in  any  more  talking  now.  But  I'll 
never  feel  any  way  but  one  about  you;  and  if  you 
say  so  we'll  drive  down  in  time  to  catch  that  train, 
and  go  straight  to  the  minister's  house;  and  when 
you  come  back  home  you'll  come  as  Mrs.  Royall." 

His  voice  had  the  grave  persuasive  accent  that 
had  moved  his  hearers  at  the  Home  Week  festival; 
she  had  a  sense  of  depths  of  mournful  tolerance  un 
der  that  easy  tone.  Her  whole  body  began  to 
tremble  with  the  dread  of  her  own  weakness. 

"Oh,  I  can't "  she  burst  out  desperately. 

"Can't  what?" 

She  herself  did  not  know:  she  was  not  sure  if 
she  was  rejecting  what  he  offered,  or  already  strug 
gling  against  the  temptation  of  taking  what  she 
no  longer  had  a  right  to.  She  stood  up,  shaking 
and  bewildered,  and  began  to  speak : 

"I  know  I  ain't  been  fair  to  you  always;  but  I 
want  to  be  now.  ...  I  want  you  to  know  ...  I 
want  .  .  ."  Her  voice  failed  her  and  she  stopped. 

Mr.  Royall  leaned  against  the  wall.  He  was  paler 
[270] 


SUMMER 

an  usual,  but  his  face  was  composed  and  kindly 
and  her  agitation  did  not  appear  to  perturb  him. 

"What's  all  this  about  wanting?"  he  said  as  she 
paused.  "Do  you  know  what  you  really  want?  I'll 
tell  you.  You  want  to  be  took  home  and  took  care 
of.  And  I  guess  that's  all  there  is  to  say." 

"No  .  .  .  it's  not  all.  .  .  ." 

"Ain't  it?"    He  looked  at  his  watch.    "Well,  I'll 
tell  you  another  thing.     All  /  want  is  to  know  if 
you'll  marry  me.     If  there  was  anything  else,  I'd  \ 
tell  you  so;  but  there  ain't.     Come  to  my  age,  a 
man  knows  the  things  that  matter  and  the  things   ; 
that  don't ;  that's  about  the  only  good  turn  life  does   ', 
us." 

His  tone  was  so  strong  and  resolute  that  it  was 

<T1 

like  a  supporting  arm  about  her.     She  felt  her  re-      / 
Isistance  melting,  her  strength  slipping  away  from     / 
her  as  he  spoke.  ^ 

"Don't  cry,  Charity,"  he  exclaimed  in  a  shaken 
voice.  She  looked  up,  startled  at  his  emotion,  and 
their  eyes  met. 

"See  here,"  he  said  gently,  "old  Dan's  come  a 
long  distance,  and  we've  got  to  let  him  take  it  easy 
the  rest  of  the  way.  .  .  ." 

He  picked  up  the  cloak  that  had  slipped  to  her 


SUMMER 

chair  and  laid  it  about  her  shoulders.  She  fol 
lowed  him  out  of  the  house,  and  then  walked  across 
the  yard  to  the  shed,  where  the  horse  was  tied.  Mr. 
Royall  unblanketed  him  and  led  him  out  into  the 
road.  Charity  got  into  the  buggy  and  he  drew  the 
cover  about  her  and  shook  out  the  reins  with  a 
cluck.  When  they  reached  the  end  of  the  village  he 
turned  the  horse's  head  toward  Creston. 


XVIII 

^T^HEY  began  to  jog  down  the  winding  road 
JL  to  the  valley  at'  old  Dan's  languid  pace. 
Chanty  felt  herself  sinking  into  deeper  depths  of 
weariness,  and  as  they  descended  through  the  bare 
woods  there  were  moments  when  she  lost  the  ex 
act  sense  of  things,  and  seemed  to  be  sitting  be 
side  her  lover  with  the  leafy  arch  of  summer  bend 
ing  over  them.  But  this  illusion  was  faint  and 
transitory.  For  the  most  part  she  had  only  a 
confused  sensation  of  slipping  down  a  smooth  irre 
sistible  current ;  and  she  abandoned  herself  to  the , 
feeling  as  a  refuge  from  the  torment  of  thought.  ? 
Mr.  Royall  seldom  spoke,  but  his  silent  presence 
gave  her,  for  the  first  time,  a  sense  of  peace  and 
security.  She  knew  that  where  he  was  there  would 
be  warmth,  rest,  silence ;  and  for  the  moment  they  / 
were  all  she  wanted.  She  shut  her  eyes,  and  even 
these  things  grew  dim  to  her.  .  .  . 

In  the  train,  during  the  short  run  from  Creston 
to  Nettleton,  the  warmth  aroused  her,  and  the  con- 
18  [273] 


SUMMER 

sciousness  of  being  under  strange  eyes  gave  her  a 
momentary  energy.  She  sat  upright,  facing  Mr. 
Royall,  and  stared  out  of  the  window  at  the  denuded 
country.  Forty-eight  hours  earlier,  when  she  had 
last  traversed  it,  many  of  the  trees  still  held  their 
leaves;  but  the  high  wind  of  the  last  two  nights 
had  stripped  them,  and  the  lines  of  the  landscape 
were  as  finely  pencilled  as  in  December.  A  few 
days  of  autumn  cold  had  wiped  out  all  trace  of  the 
rich  fields  and  languid  groves  through  which  she  had 
passed  on  the  Fourth  of  July;  and  with  the  fading 
of  the  landscape  those  fervid  hours  had  faded,  too. 
She  could  no  longer  believe  that  she  was  the  being 
who  had  lived  them;  she  was  someone  to  whom 
something  irreparable  and  overwhelming  had  hap 
pened,  but  the  traces  of  the  steps  leading  up  to  it 
had  almost  vanished. 

When  the  train  reached  Nettleton  and  she  walked 
out  into  the  square  at  Mr.  Royall's  side  the  sense 
of  unreality  grew  more  overpowering.  The  physical 
strain  of  the  night  and  day  had  left  no  room  in 
her  mind  for  new  sensations  and  she  followed  Mr. 
Royall  as  passively  as  a  tired  child.  As  in  a  con 
fused  dream  she  presently  found  herself  sitting  with 
him  in  a  pleasant  room,  at  a  table  with  a  red  and 

[274] 


SUMMER 

!  white  table-cloth  on  which  hot  food  and  tea  were 
placed.  He  filled  her  cup  and  plate  and  whenever 
she  lifted  her  eyes  from  them  she  found  his  resting 
on  her  with  the  same  steady  tranquil  gaze  that  had 
reassured  and  strengthened  her  when  they  had  faced 
each  other  in  old  Mrs.  Hobart's  kitchen.  As  every 
thing  else  in  her  consciousness  grew  more  and  more 
confused  and  immaterial,  became  more  and  more 
like  trie  universal  shimmer  that  dissolves  the  world 

^         :__ 

to  failing  eyes,  Mr.  Royall's  presence  began  to  de- 
|  tach  itself  with  rocky  firmness  from  this  elusive 
|  background.  She  had  always  thought  of  him — 
|  when  she  thought  of  him  at  all — as  of  someone 
hateful  and  obstructive,  but  whom  she  could  out 
wit  and  dominate  when  she  chose  to  make  the  ef 
fort.  Only  once,  on  the  day  of  the  Old  Home  Week 
celebration,  while  the  stray  fragments  of  his  address 
drifted  across  her  troubled  mind,  had  she  caught 
a  glimpse  of  another  being,  a  being  so  different 
from  the  dull-witted  enemy  with  wrhom  she  had 
supposed  herself  to  be  living  that  even  through 
the  burning  mist  of  her  own  dreams  he  had  stood 
out  with  startling  distinctness.  For  a  moment, 
then,  what  he  said — and  something  in  his  way  of 
saying  it — had  made  her  see  why  he  had  always 

[375] 


SUMMER 

struck  her  as  such  a  lonely  man.  But  the  mist  of 
her  dreams  had  hidden  him  again,  and  she  had  for 
gotten  that  fugitive  impression. 

It  came  back  to  her  now,  as  they  sat  at  the  table, 
and  gave  her,  through  her  own  immeasurable  deso 
lation,  a  sudden  sense  of  their  nearness  to  each 
other.  But  all  these  feelings  were  only  brief  streaks 
of  light  in  the  grey  blur  of  her  physical  weakness. 
Through  it  she  was  aware  that  Mr.  Royall  pres 
ently  left  her  sitting  by  the  table  in  the  •warm 
room,  and  came  back  after  an  interval  with  a  car 
riage  from  the  station — a  closed  "hack"  with  sun 
burnt  blue  silk  blinds — in  which  they  drove  together 
to  a  house  covered  with  creepers  and  standing  next 
to  a  church  with  a  carpet  of  turf  before  it.  They 
got  out  at  this  house,  and  the  carriage  waited 
while  they  walked  up  the  path  and  entered  a  wain 
scoted  hall  and  then  a  room  full  of  books.  In 
this  room  a  clergyman  whom  Charity  had  never 
seen  received  them  pleasantly,  and  asked  them  to 
be  seated  for  a  few  minutes  while  witnesses  were 
being  summoned. 

Charity  sat  down  obediently,  and  Mr.  Royall,  his 
hands  behind  his  back,  paced  slowly  up  and  down 
the  room.  As  he  turned  and  faced  Chanty,  she 

[276] 


SUMMER 

noticed  that  his  lips  were  twitching  a  little ;  but 
the  look  in  his  eyes  was  grave  and  calm.  Once 
he  paused  before  her  and  said  timidly :  "Your  hair's 
got  kinder  loose  with  the  wind,"  and  she  lifted 
her  hands  and  tried  to  smooth  back  the  locks  that 
had  escaped  from  her  braid.  There  was  a  looking- 
glass  in  a  carved  frame  on  the  wall,  but  she  was 
ashamed  to  look  at  herself  in  it,  and  she  sat  with 
her  hands  folded  on  her  knee  till  the  clergyman 
returned.  Then  they  went  out  again,  along  a  sort 
of  arcaded  passage,  and  into  a  low  vaulted  room 
with  a  cross  on  an  altar,  and  rows  of  benches. 
The  clergyman,  who  had  left  them  at  the  door, 
presently  reappeared  before  the  altar  in  a  surplice, 
and  a  lady  who  was  probably  his  wife,  and  a  man 
in  a  blue  shirt  who  had  been  raking  dead  leaves 
on  the  lawn,  came  in  and  sat  on  one  of  the  benches. 
The  clergyman  opened  a  book  and  signed  to 
Charity  and  Mr.  Royall  to  approach.  Mr.  Royall 
advanced  a  few  steps,  and  Charity  followed  him 
as  she  had  followed  him  to  the  buggy  when  they 
went  out  of  Mrs.  Hobart's  kitchen;  she  had  the 
feeling  that  if  she  ceased  to  keep  close  to  him, 
and  do  what  he  told  her  to  do,  the  world  would 
slip  away  from  beneath  her  feet. 
19  [277] 


J 


SUMMER 

The  clergyman  began  to  read,  and  on  her  dazed 
mind  there  rose  the  memory  of  Mr.  Miles,  stand 
ing  the  night  before  in  the  desolate  house  of  the 
Mountain,  and  reading  out  of  the  same  book  words 
that  had  the  same  dread  sound  of  finality: 

"I  require  and  charge  you  both,  as  ye  will  answer 
at  the  dreadful  day  of  judgment  when  the  secrets 
of  all  hearts  shall  be  disclosed,  that  if  either  of 
you  know  any  impediment  whereby  ye  may  not  be 
lawfully  joined  together  .  .  ." 

Charity  raised  her  eyes  and  met  Mr.  Royall's. 
They  were  still  looking  at  her  kindly  and  steadily. 
"I  will!"  she  heard  him  say  a  moment  later,  after 
another  interval  of  words  that  she  had  failed  to 
catch.  She  was  so  busy  trying  to  understand  the 
gestures  that  the  clergyman  was  signalling  to  her 
to  make  that  she  no  longer  heard  what  was  be 
ing  said.  After  another  interval  the  lady  on  the 
bench  stood  up,  and  taking  her  hand  put  it  in 
Mr.  Royall's.  It  lay  enclosed  in  his  strong  palm 
and  she  felt  a  ring  that  was  too  big  for  her  being 
slipped  on  her  thin  finger.  She  understood  then 
that  she  was  married.  .  .  . 

Late  that  afternoon  Charity  sat  alone  in  a  bed 
room  of  the  fashionable  hotel  where  she  and  Harney 

[278] 


SUMMER 

had  vainly  sought  a  table  on  the  Fourth  of  July.  I/" 
She  had  never  before  been  in  so  handsomely  fur 
nished  a  room.  The  mirror  above  the  dressing- 
table  reflected  the  high  head-board  and  fluted  pillow 
slips  of  the  double  bed,  and  a  bedspread  so  spot 
lessly  white  that  she  had  hesitated  to  lay  her  hat 
and  jacket  on  it.  The  humming  radiator  diffused 
an  atmosphere  of  drowsy  warmth,  and  through  a 
half -open  door  she  saw  the  glitter  of  the  nickel 
taps  above  twin  marble  basins. 

For  a  while  the  long  turmoil  of  the  night  and 
day  had  slipped  away  from  her  and  she  sat  with 
closed  eyes,  surrendering  herself  to  the  spell  of 
warmth  and  silence.  But  presently  this  merciful 
apathy  was  succeeded  by  the  sudden  acuteness  of 
vision  with  which  sick  people  sometimes  wake  out 
of  a  heavy  sleep.  As  she  opened  her  eyes  they 
rested  on  the  picture  that  hung  above  the  bed.  It 
was  a  large  engraving  with  a  dazzling  white  mar-r 
gin  enclosed  in  a  wide  frame  of  bird's-eye  maple 
with  an  inner  scroll  of  gold.  The  engraving  rep 
resented  a  young  man  in  a  boat  on  a  lake  over 
hung  with  trees.  He  was  leaning  over  to  gather 
water-lilies  for  the  girl  in  a  light  dress  who  lay 
among  the  cushions  in  the  stern.  The  scene  was 
[279] 


SUMMER 

full  of  a  drowsy  midsummer  radiance,  and  Charity 
averted  her  eyes  from  it  and,  rising  from  her  chair, 
began  to  wander  restlessly  about  the  room. 

It  was  on  the  fifth  floor,  and  its  broad  window 
of  plate  glass  looked  over  the  roofs  of  the  town. 
Beyond  them  stretched  a  wooded  landscape  in 
which  the  last  fires  of  sunset  were  picking  out  a 
steely  gleam.  Charity  gazed  at  the  gleam  with 
startled  eyes.  Even  through  the  gathering  twi 
light  she  recognized  the  contour  of  the  soft  hills 
encircling  it,  and  the  way  the  meadows  sloped  to 
its  edge.  It  was  Nettleton  Lake  that  she  was  look 
ing  at. 

She  stood  a  long  time  in  the  window  staring  out 
at  the  fading  water.  The  sight  of  it  had  roused 
her  for  the  first  time  to  a  realization  of  what  she 
had  done.  Even  the  feeling  of  the  ring  on  her 
hand  had  not  brought  her  this  sharp  sense  of  the 
irretrievable.  For  an  instant  the  old  impulse  of 
,/  flight  swept  through  her;  but  it  was  only  the  lift 
of  a  broken  wing.  She  heard  the  door  open  behind 
her,  and  Mr.  Royall  came  in. 

He  had  gone  to  the  barber's  to  be  shaved,  and  his 
shaggy  grey  hair  had  been  trimmed  and  smoothed. 
He  moved  strongly  and  quickly,  squaring  his  shoul- 
[280] 


SUMMER 

!ders  and  carrying  his  head  high,  as  if  he  did  not 
want  to  pass  unnoticed. 

"What  are  you  doing  in  the  dark?"  he  called  out 
in  a  cheerful  voice.  Charity  made  no  answer.  He 
i  went  up  to  the  window  to  draw  the  blind,  and  put 
ting  his  finger  on  the  wall  flooded  the  room  with 
a  blaze  of  light  from  the  central  chandelier.  In 
this  unfamiliar  illumination  husband  and  wife  faced 
each  other  awkwardly  for  a  moment;  then  Mr. 
Royall  said :  "We'll  step  down  and  have  some  sup 
per,  if  you  say  so/* 

The  thought  of  food  filled  her  with  repugnance; 
but  not  daring  to  confess  it  she  smoothed  her  hair 
and  followed  him  to  the  lift. 

An  hour  later,  coming  out  of  the  glare  of  the 
dining-room,  she  waited  in  the  marble-panelled  hall 
while  Mr.  Royall,  before  the  brass  lattice  of  one 
of  the  corner  counters,  selected  a  cigar  and  bought 
an  evening  paper.  Men  were  lounging  in  rocking 
chairs  under  the  blazing  chandeliers,  travellers  com 
ing  and  going,  bells  ringing,  porters  shuffling  by 
with  luggage.  Over  Mr.  Royall's  shoulder,  as  he 
leaned  against  the  counter,  a  girl  with  her  hair 
puffed  high  smirked  and  nodded  at  a  dapper  drum- 
[281] 


SUMMER 

mer  who  was  getting  his  key  at  the  desk  across 
the  hall. 

Charity  stood  among  these  cross-currents  of  life 
as  motionless  and  inert  as  if  she  had  been  one  of 
the  tables  screwed  to  the  marble  floor.  All  her 
soul  was  gathered  up  into  one  sick  sense  of  com 
ing  doom,  and  she  watched  Mr.  Royall  in  fasci 
nated  terror  while  he  pinched  the  cigars  in  suc 
cessive  boxes  and  unfolded  his  evening  paper  with 
a  steady  hand. 

Presently  he  turned  and  joined  her.  "You  go 
right  along  up  to  bed — I'm  going  to  sit  down  here 
and  have  my  smoke,"  he  said.  He  spoke  as  easily 
and  naturally  as  if  they  had  been  an  old  couple, 
long  used  to  each  other's  ways,  and  her  contracted 
heart  gave  a  flutter  of  relief.  She  followed  him 
to  the  lift,  and  he  put  her  in  and  enjoined  the 
buttoned  and  braided  boy  to  show  her  to  her 
room. 

She  groped  her  way  in  through  the  darkness, 
forgetting  where  the  electric  button  was,  and  not 
knowing  how  to  manipulate  it.  But  a  white  autumn 
moon  had  risen,  and  the  illuminated  sky  put  a  pale 
light  in  the  room.  By  it  she  undressed,  and  after 
folding  up  the  ruffled  pillow-slips  crept  timidly  un- 

[282] 


SUMMER 

der  the  spotless  counterpane.  She  had  never  felt 
such  smooth  sheets  or  such  light  warm  blankets; 
but  the  softness  of  the  bed  did  not  soothe  her.  She 
lay  there  trembling  with  a  fear  that  ran  through 
her  veins  like  ice.  "What  have  I  done?  Oh,  what 
have  I  done  ?"  she  whispered,  shuddering  to  her  pil 
low;  and  pressing  her  face  against  it  to  shut  out 
the  pale  landscape  beyond  the  window  she  lay  in 
the  darkness  straining  her  ears,  and  shaking  at 
every  footstep  that  approached.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  she  sat  up  and  pressed  her  hands 
against  her  frightened  heart.  A  faint  sound  had 
told  her  that  someone  was  in  the  room;  but  she 
must  have  slept  in  the  interval,  for  she  had  heard 
no  one  enter.  The  moon  was  setting  beyond  the 
opposite  roofs,  and  in  the  darkness  outlined  against 
the  grey  square  of  the  window,  she  saw  a  figure 
seated  in  the^cking-chair.  The  figure  did  not  move : 
it  was  sunk  deep  in  the  chair,  with  bowed  head 
and  folded  arms,  and  she  saw  that  it  was  Mr. 
Royall  who  sat  there.  He  had  not  undressed,  but1 
had  taken  the  blanket  from  the  foot  of  the  bed  and 
laid  it  across  his  knees.  Trembling  and  holding 
her  breath  she  watched  him,  fearing  that  he  had 
been  roused  by  her  movement;  but  he  did  not  stir, 

[283] 


SUMMER 

and  she  concluded  that  he  wished  her  to  think 
he  was  asleep. 

As  she  continued  to  watch  him  ineffable  relief 
stole  slowly  over  her,  relaxing  her  strained  nerves 
and  exhausted  body.  He  knew,  then  ...  he  knew 
...  it  was  because  he  knew  that  he  had  married 
her,  and  that  he  sat  there  in  the  darkness  to  show 
her  she  was  safe  with  him.  A  stir  of  something 
deeper  than  she  had  ever  felt  in  thinking  of  him 
flitted  through  her  tired  brain,  and  cautiously, 
noiselessly,  she  let  her  head  sink  on  the  pillow.  .  .  . 

When  she  woke  the  room  was  full  of  morning 
light,  and  her  first  glance  showed  her  that  she 
was  alone  in  it.  She  got  up  and  dressed,  and  as 
she  was  fastening  her  dress  the  door  opened,  and 
Mr.  Royall  came  in.  He  looked  old  and  tired  in 
the  bright  daylight,  but  his  face  wore  the  same  ex 
pression  of  grave  friendliness  that  had  reassured 
her  on  the  Mountain,  It  was  as  if  all  the  dark 
spirits  had  gone  out  of  him. 

They  went  downstairs  to  the  dining-room  for 
breakfast,  and  after  breakfast  he  told  her  he  had 
some  insurance  business  to  attend  to.  "I  guess 
while  I'm  doing  it  you'd  better  step  out  and  buy 
yourself  whatever  you  need."  He  smiled,  and 

[284] 


SUMMER 

added  with  an  embarrassed  laugh:  "You  know  I 
always  wanted  you  to  beat  all  the  other  girls."  He 
drew  something  from  his  pocket,  and  pushed  it 
across  the  table  to  her;  and  she  saw  that  he  had 
given  her  two  twenty-dollar  bills.  "If  it  ain't 
enough  there's  more  where  that  come  from — I 
want  you  to  beat  'em  all  hollow,"  he  repeated. 

She  flushed  and  tried  to  stammer  out  her  thanks, 
but  he  had  pushed  back  his  chair  and  was  leading 
the  way  out  of  the  dining-room.  In  the  hall  he 
paused  a  minute  to  say  that  if  it  suited  her  they 
would  take  the  three  o'clock  train  back  to  North 
Dormer;  then  he  took  his  hat  and  coat  from  the- 
rack  and  went  out. 

A  few  minutes  later  Charity  went  out,  too.  She 
had  watched  to  see  in  what  direction  he  was  go 
ing,  and  she  took  the  opposite  way  and  walked 
quickly  down  the  main  street  to  the  brick  build 
ing  on  the  corner  of  Lake  Avenue.  There  she 
paused  to  look  cautiously  up  and  down  the  thor 
oughfare,  and  then  climbed  the  brass-bound  stairs 
to  Dr.  Merkle's  door.  The  same  bushy-headed 
mulatto  girl  admitted  her,  and  after  the  same  in 
terval  of  waiting  in  the  red  plush  parlor  she  was 
once  more  summoned  to  Dr.  Merkle's  office.  The 

[2851 


SUMMER 

doctor  received  her  without  surprise,  and  led  her 
into  the  inner  plush  sanctuary. 

"I  thought  you'd  be  back,  but  you've  come  a  mite 
too  soon:  I  told  you  to  be  patient  and  not  fret," 
she  observed,  after  a  pause  of  penetrating  scrutiny. 

Charity  drew  the  money  from  her  breast.  "I've 
come  to  get  my  blue  brooch,"  she  said,  flushing. 

"Your  brooch?"  Dr.  Merkle  appeared  not  to 
remember.  "My,  yes — I  get  so  many  things  of  that 
kind.  Well,  my  dear,  you'll  have  to  wait  while  I 
get  it  out  of  the  safe.  I  don't  leave  valuables 
like  that  laying  round  like  the  noospaper." 

She  disappeared  for  a  moment,  and  returned 
with  a  bit  of  twisted-up  tissue  paper  from  which 
she  unwrapped  the  brooch. 

Charity,  as  she  looked  at  it,  felt  a  stir  of  warmth 
at  her  heart.  She  held  out  an  eager  hand. 

"Have  you  got  the  change?"  she  asked  a  little 
breathlessly,  laying  one  of  the  twenty-dollar  bills 
on  the  table. 

"Change?  What'd  I  want  to  have  change  for? 
I  only  see  two  twenties  there,"  Dr.  Merkle  answered 
brightly. 

Charity  paused,  disconcerted.     "I  thought  .  .  . 
you  said  it  was  five  dollars  a  visit.  .  .  ." 
[286] 


SUMMER 

'Tor  you,  as  a  favour — I  did.  But  how  about 
the  responsibility  and  the  insurance  ?  I  don't  s'pose 
you  ever  thought  of  that?  This  pin's  worth  a  hun 
dred  dollars  easy.  If  it  had  got  lost  or  stole, 
where'd  I  been  when  you  come  to  claim  it?" 

Charity  remained  silent,  puzzled  and  half- 
convinced  by  the  argument,  and  Dr.  Merkle 
promptly  followed  up  her  advantage.  "I  didn't 
ask  you  for  your  brooch,  my  dear.  I'd  a  good  deal 
ruther  folks  paid  me  my  regular  charge  than  have 
'em  put  me  to  all  this  trouble." 

She  paused,  and  Charity,  seized  with  a  desperate 
longing  to  escape,  rose  to  her  feet  and  held  out 
one  of  the  bills. 

"Will  you  take  that?"  she  asked. 

"No,  I  won't  take  that,  my  dear;  but  I'll  take 
it  with  its  mate,  and  hand  you  over  a  signed  receipt 
if  you  don't  trust  me." 

"Oh,  but  I  can't— it's  all  I've  got,"  Charity  ex 
claimed. 

Dr.  Merkle  looked  up  at  her  pleasantly  from  the 
plush  sofa.  "It  seems  you  got  married  yesterday, 
up  to  the  Tiscopal  church;  I  heard  all  about  the 
wedding  from  the  minister's  chore-man.  It  would 
be  a  pity,  wouldn't  it,  to  let  Mr.  Royall  know  you 
[287] 


SUMMER 

had  an  account  running  here?  I  just  put  it  to  you 
as  your  own  mother  might." 

Anger  flamed  up  in  Charity,  and  for  an  instant 
she  thought  of  abandoning  the  brooch  and  letting 
Dr.  Merkle  do  her  worst.  But  how  could  she  leave 
her  only  treasure  with  that  evil  woman?  She 
wanted  it  for  her  baby :  she  meant  it,  in  some  mys 
terious  way,  to  be  a  link  between  Harney's  child 
and  its  unknown  father.  Trembling  and  hating 
herself  while  she  did  it,  she  laid  Mr.  Royall's  money 
on  the  table,  and  catching  up  the  brooch  fled  out 
of  the  room  and  the  house.  .  .  . 

In  the  street  she  stood  still,  dazed  by  this  last 
adventure.  But  the  brooch  lay  in  her  bosom  like 
a  talisman,  and  she  felt  a  secret  lightness  of  heart. 
It  gave  her  strength,  after  a  moment,  to  walk  on 
slowly  in  the  direction  of  the  post  office,  and  go 
in  through  the  swinging  doors.  At  one  of  the  win 
dows  she  bought  a  sheet  of  letter-paper,  an  en 
velope  and  a  stamp;  then  she  sat  down  at  a  table 
and  dipped  the  rusty  post  office  pen  in  ink.  She 
had  come  there  possessed  with  a  fear  which  had 
haunted  her  ever  since  she  had  felt  Mr.  Royall's 
ring  on  her  finger:  the  fear  that  Harney  might, 
after  all,  free  himself  and  come  back  to  her.  It 


SUMMER 

was  a  possibility  which  had  never  occurred  to  her 
during  the  dreadful  hours  after  she  had  received 
his  letter;  only  when  the  decisive  step  she  had 
taken  made  longing  turn  to  apprehension  did  such 
a  contingency  seem  conceivable.  She  addressed  the 
envelope,  and  on  the  sheet  of  paper  she  wrote : 

I'm  married  to  Mr.  Royall.  I'll  always  remember 
you.  CHARITY. 

The  last  words  were  not  in  the  least  what  she 
had  meant  to  write;  they  had  flowed  from  her  pen 
irresistibly.  She  had  not  had  the  strength  to  com 
plete  her  sacrifice;  but,  after  all,  what  did  it  mat 
ter?  Now  that  there  was  no  chance  of  ever  see 
ing  Harney  again,  why  should  she  not  tell  him  the 
truth? 

When  she  had  put  the  letter  in  the  box  she  went 
out  into  the  busy  sunlit  street  and  began  to  walk 
to  the  hotel.  Behind  the  plate-glass  windows  of  the 
department  stores  she  noticed  the  tempting  display 
of  dresses  and  dress-materials  that  had  fired  her 
imagination  on  the  day  when  she  and  Harney  had 
looked  in  at  them  together.  They  reminded  her 
of  Mr.  Royall's  injunction  to  go  out  and  buy  all 
she  needed.  She  looked  down  at  her  shabby  dress, 
[289] 


SUMMER 

and  wondered  what  she  should  say  when  he  saw 
her  coming  back  empty-handed.  As  she  drew  near 
the  hotel  she  saw  him  waiting  on  the  doorstep, 
and  her  heart  began  to  beat  with  apprehension. 

He  nodded  and  waved  his  hand  at  her  approach, 
and  they  walked  through  the  hall  and  went  upstairs 
to  collect  their  possessions,  so  that  Mr.  Royall  might 
give  up  the  key  of  the  room  when  they  went  down 
again  for  their  midday  dinner.  In  the  bedroom, 
while  she  was  thrusting  back  into  the  satchel  the 
few  things  she  had  brought  away  with  her,  she 
suddenly  felt  that  his  eyes  were  on  her  and  that 
he  was  going  to  speak.  She  stood  still,  her  half- 
folded  night-gown  in  her  hand,  while  the  blood 
rushed  up  to  her  drawn  cheeks. 

"Well,  did  you  rig  yourself  out  handsomely?  I 
haven't  seen  any  bundles  round/'  he  said  jocosely. 

"Oh,  I'd  rather  let  Ally  Hawes  make  the  few 
things  I  want,"  she  answered. 

"That  so?"  He  looked  at  her  thoughtfully  for 
a  moment  and  his  eye-brows  projected  in  a  scowl. 
Then  his  face  grew  friendly  again.  "Well,  I  wanted 
you  to  go  back  looking  stylisher  than  any  of  them ; 
but  I  guess  you're  right.  You're  a  good  girl, 
Charity." 

[290] 


SUMMER 

Their  eyes  met,  and  something  rose  in  his  that 
'she  had  never  seen  there:  a  look  that  made  her 
feel  ashamed  and  yet  secure. 

"I  guess  you're  good,  too,"  she  said,  shyly  and 
quickly.  He  smiled  without  answering,  and  they 
went  out  of  the  room  together  and  dropped  down 
to  the  hall  in  the  glittering  lift. 

Late  that  evening,  in  the  cold  autumn  moonlight, 
they  drove  up  to  the  door  of  the  red  house. 


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